There is a bedroom
And a bed without a frame
And huge quilts tossed carelessly atop it
Constructed delicately from cherished scraps
Stitched by a hand
Now long gone to dust

Bare floor is an unknown luxury
Clothes strewn across the room
Boxes sitting lids half open
And the walls somehow
Are stacked with books
Even where
There is no shelf

Bright orange curtains hang
So that in the summer
When the door is closed
And you stand outside in the hall
Burning light streams out
From under the door
Like all the fires of hell leaping
Seeking to escape perdition

And in the summer
If you stand there at the door
Or in the hall
Or at the bottom of the stairs
You can hear
Just barely
Just a little
The insistent tap-tapping
Of the typewriter keys
And the ring of that little bell
Siren of the imagination
As the lines go by
And the beautiful aging mechanisms
That tick busily away