Down in the basement, the mop and bucket begin to dance.
It is after midnight, and shadows form a latticework pattern
on the cracked, grey floor. A small lightbulb buzzes above
its silver chain. The furnace kicks in with a loud groan.
The air smells heavy with dust. Shadows dance along the walls.
And now, on the narrow windows, streaks of rain.
We have slunk down the long staircase, stepping carefully.
We have been awake a long time, listening in the dark.
Our fingers keep time, we move our heads from side to side.
Your hair spills around your shoulders and gleams in the light.
My hands are fluttering, my eyes burned into the wall.
We are dancing now, tracing our way back to the table and chair,
recalling the red pot we used to serve our sauce.
It was winter then and our guests lay groaning on the floor.
It was a good life by a river and a mill. We lived by our wits,
gathering wool where toadstools loomed, patios for the idle rich.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be
pleased to hear them.