Ground Down

The door creaks open, a breath

of cold. And that smell.

Not just dust. Earth,

rot, something damp and

vaguely metallic, like old coins.

My friend points, “Fuse box. Left.”

I step down, concrete gritty

under my cheap sneakers.

The air is thick here,

a heavy blanket.

The single bulb on its pull-cord

swings, anemic yellow,

throws shadows that jump

like scared mice.

I trace the lines of pipe,

water stains on the blocks.

It’s the smell of childhood fear,

of things unseen,

of secrets kept down deep

where the light doesn’t reach.

It clings to my clothes.

It gets into your hair.

This kind of memory.