Before my house’s basement was finished,

It was a barren concrete playground,

For my imagination to mold.

Silver lined walls got punctured and distorted,

Used for funhouse mirrors; canvases to poke

Padded feet rebound from veined concrete,

Sending out muffled echoes while I run,

Support beams peek from the ceiling, black and dusted,

Became my skeletal monkey bars to cling to,

Young, callused fingers with dark smudges,

Reddening with exertion, shimmying across,

Dangling over couch cushions and tiny trinkets,

Swinging towards a blank and familiar face,

The aging giant, the box television

On its massive head I perched unsteady

Till it all came tumbling down from beneath me.