My Dead Father in the Basement

My mother banished him to the basement

so he could be the slob he was, as in

leaving a magazine beside a chair

or a cup on a surface where,

it could leave a catastrophic ring.

So cold down there, I remember --

No portable heat back then,

said he was fine, that cheery lie.

Lovely space, really, he with his typewriter

which he managed with two fingers only --

professional journalist, author of books.

Typed faster with forefingers than I

with ten slaves.  Books all around him,

a gorgeous sloo.  Was trying to quit smoking.

How to function without a smoldering lung?

Recurring dream.  He's in some deep deep

basement of tall tall building, white,

or just a one story, basement below basement

dropping boxes of hell, with no fire.

Him and manual machine, tapping tapping

like a blind man's cane.   He surfaces

once in a while.  It's allowed, unknown

for how long, how long until he dies again.

Surfaced, neither here nor there.

Then he's gone again.   White walls.

White paper.  White father.

Nothing slovenly, tinged with living.

My mother's dreams all come true .

Julie K. Shavin 12 09