The air is damp in the basement where several boxes trade baseball cards
With long-forgotten toys in
various stages of disrepair.
A 30ft. hose, pretending to be a reticulated python; commits to the role
In an asymmetrical coil of hunter’s green, weathered and neglected. It becomes a reptile in a garden of reverie.
Next to an oil can full of rusty nails and sawdust. To seldom applause.
At night, the seeping mirror is placid and black on concrete between crates.
A washing machine windges in an existential spiral
of bespoke filth and hand-me-downs.
you can hear the rain patter like fat cats in bubble wrap
as a late dinner sinks into the catacomb, crooning pork chops and maple
with a hint of ambergris’ and misbegotten broccoli.
When the hour is late… the mice chat as metallic slugs lace silver thread
to weave a two-dimensional sweater
for a concrete god
in the dark.
with no
hands.