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Praise Song for the Basement
though some folks might call it a cellar,
granite and quartzite, glacial rocks of ages
unfathomable, cement spread roughly between,
propping the 1910 farmhouse above.
My dad sought refuge here,
huddled for warmth next to the radio
the AC Church didn't allow upstairs,
Grand Ol' Opry and "The Wabash Cannonball"
carrying him away from fears of the father.
Warmth came also with chainsaw and ax
in the timber, scoop tractoring the load
to the basement’s east side, propping the chute door
to a yawn, feeding the ravenous furnace all winter,
a steel beast six feet deep,
pipes to the metal-grated vents upstairs.
We lay our work gloves on top to dry,
and once from the nest a startled snake shot out
into the space above my head,
finding nothing but air acrobatically doubled back.
Dad got up on a chair and flipped over work gloves
with bare hands while I stood far back and watched,
same way I did when Mom stuck her hands
in every kid’s boot before we put them on,
checking for rodents and clearing any insects,
same way I did when Mom found another snake
coiled around the Mason jars of preserves,
coaxed it into a half caduceus around
the handle of her hoe, carried it up the steps
to the yard for an unceremonious beheading.
Same way I stand back now,
praising at a distance simple depths of courage,
salt-of-the-earth by-guess-or-by-gosh perseverance,
these rocks upon which I built my faith,
the foundation that was laid.
- Boyd Bauman
Boyd Bauman grew up on a small ranch south of Bern, Kansas, where his dad was the storyteller, and his mom the family scribe. His books of poetry are Cleave and Scheherazade Plays the Chestnut Tree Café, and his children’s book is The Heights of Love. After stints in New York, Colorado, Alaska, Japan, and Vietnam, Boyd is now a librarian and writer in Kansas City. Visit at boydbauman.weebly.com.