Blues

The damp basement

Our basement only recently

started to feel moist

as if it were perspiring:

droplets like large tears

suspended on the asbestos pipes

after 25 years of perfect dryness

when it could have been wet

for all we cared

for all the time we spent

in its unfinished dark—

Have my boys grown so large

that the basement is theirs to flood?

Have we bequeathed a besotted foundation?

I’ll tell you this: There’s nothing better

than to be reminded what it feels like

to be asked to sing the blues

the bass over Ben’s shy slumped shoulders

the guitar cradled by Pat’s grown-up fingers,

my voice summoning an old rainstorm,

my smiling boys tapping time on the crumbling cement