Common Things

On our first morning in the house

our new home not yet cold

from its last abandonment

we tiptoed on our thin young legs

down to the cool cellar

heavy with the scent of stone and earth

we found a workbench with a few hand saws

tinged with rust in this electric age

and on the floor a 12 pound sledge

useless      with a splintered handle

that could have easily been replaced

if anyone had cared

half way down the basement was

a heavy timbered room

about ten feet on either side

whose door barely responded

to the pull of a ten

and an eight year old

but when it did and when we groped

to find the switch

a single hanging bulb lit up

to reveal a large square chest

a room within a room

a poultry incubator six feet tall

varnished oak with frame and panel doors

drawer after drawer of wire mesh

brass hinges and latches with long thick handles

handles that pulled easily

handles cast without a care

for a bit of extra metal

handles as long as a young boy’s arm

with graceful curves to welcome the hand

and a thickening at the end

to signify nothing but the maker’s sense

of how such a simple metal piece

should look to the eye and feel to the touch

good for nothing now except

to fasten closed a wooden door

if there was something left to seal inside

good for nothing but to teach

a little boy the feel of common things

and help him understand what beauty is

© 2015 Frank Kearns

Basement Photographs

In the cellar

you      and I your older brother

construct another project

the trains of childhood

replaced with a model race car track

built by us from wood and foil

in the picture you and I

heads bowed in concentration

don’t seem to feel the need to talk

but as we planned

the roadway slope

and the spacing of the track

we must have talked

and though I never was a dreamer

we must have talked of dreams

the photographs

are black and white

like shadows     like my memories

and I have spent a lifetime

searching them

for fragments of your voice

©2015 Frank Kearns

Making a City

One summer August when I was about twelve, my brother and I embarked on a grand undertaking. We decided, in a dusty second floor room in the abandoned shed attached to our old farm house, to build a civilization. We had a large flat space. We had paper and glue. And we had, wonder of wonders, access to my father’s office mimeograph machine. On a grid, maybe four feet by four feet, we laid it all out: main street, side streets, houses, yards, shops.

I think of this, standing under the sun outside my office building, looking across the parking lot, across the boulevard, to the blue sky above the strip mall restaurants. A grid city, laid out and planned with restaurants here and a gas station there, patterns repeated over and over beneath the glare of a nine zillion watt light bulb.

There is Sweetie Thai, with white table cloths, tea lite candles, thin waitresses moving in the dimness of the dining room away from the glow of the windows. Carl’s Junior. One of a thousand in Orange County, and the California Fish Grill, where every Tuesdays fish tacos are half price. Every Tuesday one of the ladies asks around the office. She collects the orders and makes the call, and then we walk across the street, talking of home repair and children. The smell of some exotic oil on a hot pan floats from Sweetie Thai. Inside the California Fish Grill, the noise of clanking spatulas and the sizzle of batter are background for the chatter and laughter of a hundred people jostling around the island filled with pots of salsas and cilantro.

In that dusty room we placed the people, two types of men and two types of woman, a boy and a girl, several hundred copies run off on the mimeograph. We had cars, complex folds and strategic spots of glue placed after cutting along the blue lines duplicated on a pile of paper. There was a bank, with lots of tiny money, and a restaurant and a factory where the cars were made, a couple of folded houses and a restaurant, which we thought was really pretty close to everything that we needed to complete our little world.

It all lay silent as the next school year started and dust filtered in through the shed. And now, as I stand on the concrete side walk, press the metal button and wait for the walk light, I think about this rolled out city under the sun, and realize that in my long lost little world, I didn’t know about the sizzle of batter, the smell of fried shrimp floating across lanes of asphalt, and the lady who gets up from her desk about eleven every Tuesday to collect the fish taco order.