Lying On Floors

Lying on Floors

One of my first memories was of lying
On the floor behind the wood cook stove.
It was a shelter there in the long, wide, drafty kitchen,
Warm with the brown smell of wood dust.

I could see beneath the stove my mother’s
Penny loafers and white anklets
And the floor boards stretching beyond
And narrowing with perspective.

The house sounds, clinks, rhythmic words,
The soft explosion of a laugh,
Intruded gently on my reality.

All was safe and misted in wool smelling steam
From the stove’s reservoir, my head resting
On the dog’s silky belly as her old legs
Twitched dreams.

Nothing bad could happen here.