basement animals

The basement walls in my building are made of gray concrete. As they dried, they were held up by long wooden planks; you can still see the imprint of wood grain that lingered when the concrete hardened and the boards were pulled away. Years of wear have required patches of new, darker gray concrete to be applied to hide cracks and deformities. The patches hide the wood grain pattern and assume shapes that you recognize if you're down there smoking a cigarette and thinking.

An eagle with two heads soars on an updraft over a lion that roars up at him, standing on his hind legs and wishing that he, too, were flying. A man at a desk is working so hard that he isn't aware of a large, furry tarantula that is descending on him silently. There is a huge prehistoric lizard ponderously loping across a cold gray river. Florescent garage lights stand witness to the soundless parade, casting small shadows over the textured surface.

I wonder what they do when they close the carport door, when the building is locked and dark, when I am not there to see them.