Basement Treasure

My grandparent’s farmhouse,

nearly shadowed by Mt. Hood,

held steep stairs,

cozy nooks in oddly-shaped closets,

a laundry shoot that led

to rows and rows of canned fruit

in the dank basement

which housed torture devices,

monsters conjured or real,

it didn’t much matter;

the border between the two

rather porous at that age.

There, too, the barren work shower,

where men washed up

after a long day in the orchards.

It mesmerized me with forbidden air.

I stole clandestine time there.

There were treasures

only a child could perceive,

branded by adults

as discarded or forgotten.

Some were commonly known

among the cousins,

others were my private cache,

enjoyed furtively, hush-hush

when others were around.

The most cherished cellar plunder,

valued by adult and child alike,

was the mysterious Pachinko machine.

Its colors vibrant, even garish.

Its presence, inexplicable,

only enhancing its worth.

It rained

miniature

steel balls

through an

obstacle course

of metal pins,

rapid-fire

chink, chink

ping, ping

ringing throughout

the damp air,

a cheery resonance

declaring crisp

delight.

(cc) Karen G. Johnston