Grandmother’s Basement

Is there a more perfect place for you than that of here?

Somewhere arms would never get tired of you.

Here, where ears would listen intently to your influence and, your ideas.

That place where deep thoughts and words are considered foreplay.

The company of many creating a pattern that is void of judgment.

 

Admire the shape of me,

Amongst webs of neutral skin; firm expressions.

Can you see me behind all the clutter?

Are you aware of this sense?

This need to live within your cortex,

To see your thoughts, feel your reactions.   

 

These words I write for you, though you will never know-only see.

 I am hung up, like a pillowcase on a clothesline,

In your grandmothers basement, waiting.

As I rust like a Tonka truck in a sandbox.  

For the perfect part.

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