Below Ground

The air hit first, thick and cold,

like opening a forgotten tomb.

Concrete dust, old cardboard, a bold

wet mildew, pressing through the gloom.

I flicked the chain, the bulb hung bare,

a yellow eye against the dark.

Long shadows stretched, a silent stare,

from boxes stacked, a solemn mark.

Old tax forms, winter coats, a smell

of pennies tarnished, metal rust.

A quiet world, a private hell

of things put down, reduced to dust.

And something else, a waiting breath,

a quiet, patient, certain death.