Lower than dirt
Once I lived lower than dirt; below,
in the basement area,
under the steps to my master’s front door.
I would dread his return
from the brickyards where
of those mute slaves
there was not one who did not fear
their hellbent master
and quake at his tread.
Many times, on his approach,
the brute would bawl my name;
stamp a tantrum at his door
to bid his craven drudge:
‘Take off my boots!’
And there, on that door step,
so near above my head,
there at that boot scraper,
under his tyrant heel
there at that boot scraper,
under his tyrant heel
he stamps out the dirt
while I, his bootblack,
suffer his taunts to bear
all the cold earth
all the cold earth
he rains down
to mire my hair.
while I, his bootblack,
suffer his taunts to bear
all the cold earth
all the cold earth
he rains down
to mire my hair.
Ranting.
Ever stomping
to mire my hair.
Until the day I fled away
and seven years passed before
the Time of Rain and Retribution brought
a brown mudslide to bury
all the master’s works:
the city
the brickyard
his house
he had built to
last a thousand years.
Ever stomping
to mire my hair.
Until the day I fled away
and seven years passed before
the Time of Rain and Retribution brought
a brown mudslide to bury
all the master’s works:
the city
the brickyard
his house
he had built to
last a thousand years.
Misfortune seldom comes alone to a house.
Catherine Eisner
25.01.2019
For the photograph of the 19th Century boot scraper that lends substance to this text we are indebted to the documentarian, Areta, and her fascinating explorations of the former Austrian empire in her scholarly website:
