The Depth of the Pressure

The radio is chirping that urgent, rhythmic bite,

warning of a sky turned the color of a bruise.

I went out to the yard to clear the rotted leaves

away from the wooden doors that nobody ever uses.

The padlock was rusted into a solid orange knot.

I had to use a hammer just to make the iron yield.

The smell came up first—wet concrete and rot,

and the heavy, damp scent of a flattened field.

I went down three steps and stopped at the shelf.

There was a jar of peaches from a year I don't recall.

The seal had failed, and the fruit sat by itself,

turned a ghostly, sickly white against the wall.

It’s safer down here, or that’s what they say,

away from the glass and the wind’s high scream.

But I’d rather take my chances in the light of the day

than drown in the dark of this cellar-born dream.