Basement

A discarded antique mirror leans its weight against a masonry wall

in the basement.

A former friend said I should take a picture of it, in it.

I shuddered.

The new neighbors asked what I thought of the basement

in that place.

(I said yeah, I know.)

*

I heard the groans, the unnatural creaks;

my dog barked at its black entrance,

refusing to trot down into it.

She called it the Dahmer basement.

Then her dogs visited, barked towards the void of it.

*

I don’t remember when, sometime

when my daughter left us,

I tip-toed down into its blackness,

offered peace, begged for help

in finding out what happened to Megan.

*

When I saged the basement

on a buoyant Spring afternoon,

I told them I was only lifting the vibe.

Everyone is welcome to stay.

This house is too big for me.

There is plenty of room upstairs, too.