BELOW THE FLOOR I live in the basement beneath the footsteps. The furnace whistles to me on cold days. The washing machine hums to me at night. My ex-wife lives one floor above, 10,000 miles away. My daughters with wings sail between heaven and earth. Getting honey from the clouds and iron from the brown soil. My possessions are ideas. My lovers names all rhyme. My conquests are fictionalized. The shadow side of  home sweet home, where a giant prowls naked beneath the floor and ideas grow during intercourse. Poem by Charles Ries