ZEN AND THE ART OF BAILING OUT THE BASEMENT

By Lisa Ericson

You have to get over
hauling another five gallon bucket full of water
up the stairs to dump in the bathtub,
only to return down-cellar
and hear it trickle back
past your ear through the drainpipe,
exiting the house the conventional way
—or would, if the tub trap wasn’t constantly
clogging from the grit and laundry lint
that gets sucked up along with the rainwater.

Turn the wet-vac on,
stick the hose in at the lowest point of the floor.
For awhile you barely have to move
the wand as it slurps up murky water.
Turn off the switch, unplug the cord.
(I’d prefer not to be an electrocution tragedy
hitting the papers tomorrow).
Unclip the lid and set it aside.
I have to coach myself through properly lifting
the unwieldy barrel the thirtieth,
the fortieth time.
Dump it into the bucket and heft it up the stairs.

Two inches is such an insignificant measure
for most things,
but multiplying it by two more dimensions
translates this enterprise
into quite an extensive workout
for this single working schoolteacher
with papers to grade, grades to close.
Emptied, the bucket almost defies gravity
as I swing it and myself back down the stairs,
making a quiet plash when we reach the floor.
A couple more trips and I put it to rest for the night.
Maybe the tide will ebb in my absence.

Morning—comes all too soon.
I peer downstairs to the depths, praying not to see a reflection.
The waters have again eased into my basement,
escaping the sodden earth beyond its walls.
But I must leave to prepare for my day job.
My trek to work leads me across one bridge
and onto another just as the light turns red.
I sit motionless, staring for a time
as the Kennebec surges
close below me.



 

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