P.C. Walker
One itchy felt evening,
wedged against the flannel board week,
s e a r c h e s,
discovering me with preschool ease
in a windowless room
lit by one bulb…
my pen prances across its plain.
The basement liberates
imagination’s reality.
Friends sit on chairs of bark
surrounding a perfectly constructed fire.
Cuddled beneath flannel force fields,
we sip from caffeine’s charming well.
Flames are summoned upward
at the guitar’s voice.
Even the log discerns its own burning flesh
a beautiful scent.
Please excuse my retreat to the fire.
You taunt me,
“There is no fire in the city?”
Who are you to challenge my scene?
This
is my basement!!