Poem by Auguste Hand

The basement of my childhood
was a place of wonder,
Dad’s workbench, crowded wall
hung with well-oiled tools mounted
on a discarded highway sign,
dark wood cabinets from Grandpa O.
filled with glass jars and cigar boxes
of galvanized nails, brass wood screws,
tiny bolts with fine threads and monster
bolts thick as Dad’s pointer finger, never
paired with the essential nut and washer.

Octopus ductwork wrapped in insulating
asbestos wound its way through concrete
walls and wood plank flooring to bring
gravity fed warmth to every room, the big
wall register between bedrooms provided
a nightly conversational lullaby for my
curious ears. Many years later Mom told me
they’d often find me sleeping on the floor,
next to that black metal register.

The basement window in Dad’s workshop
was covered by a sheet of plywood,
to keep the cold and the critters outside.
The workshop window was right below
my bedroom window, facing the rising sun.
I helped Mom plant daisies and hollyhocks
outside my window and thought Dad
would also enjoy the view, so I removed
his plywood window shade - without asking.
OOPS! Thought I was in for it but in the morning
Dad woke me with a hug and a big smile,
this is what he saw... Basement Window Morning Magic:

Poem by Auguste Hand
Art by Auguste Hand from a photograph by Mat