Subterranean

The washer gave up with a metallic groan,

leaving me here in the dark on my own.

My wool socks are soaked through to the skin,

where the damp from the concrete is soaking on in.

The flashlight beam catches a shelf near the floor,

where the things we don't use are kept by the door.

A phone book from twenty-twelve sits in the muck,

with gray-green fuzz where the pages got stuck.

It smells like the dirt that is pressing the walls,

like a place where the light never actually falls.

I reach for the valve with a hand that is cold,

surrounded by rust and the scent of the mold.