Here's Daniel's poem I was talking about earlier:
The Apartment
I have memories of mopping down the stairs
mopping each stair, the landing pad,
all of them.
I remember making contraptions,
at least two,
in the room where I stand.
I remember having strange dreams of falling
off high concrete sidewalks, down the stairs
only to be caught by my mom's hands.
And I also remember having a dream
(less exciting) falling from the top of the stairs
into my mom's hands.
I remember the table, with the plastic wrap stapled
and where my desk used to be. Now marked only
by a poor childhood drawing of a Decepticon and
a crossed-out name in permanent marker.
I remember learning, only from a book,
how to use chopsticks. And amazing my mom
when she came home.
I remember a very young childhood memory
at Halloween after trick-or-treating
wanting to play but urged by my parents
I swung up the stairwell.
I remember in the basement, the one room there,
that was covered by boxes and boxes of things
which also at the same time covered up
my woodworking space.
I remember in my room taking out my couch,
turning it into a bed, but sitting at the lower side
bouncing a super-ball
and calling it "The Super-Ball Championship".
But now after these years the stairwell lies empty.
The traditional space where my games originally were
is now only marked by a tearing-apart origami volcano.
The one basement room still lies covered in boxes,
still with treasures waiting to be found,
just as my childhood.
But now an empty apartment.
