A small room above a bay window. A single bed, a table and chair, and a sink. I could manage something larger, with more conveniences, but I could never match the view.
The downstairs doorbell, followed by a knock.
(Which is it?)
I roll over, open my book.
A poem by Ezra Pound:
I make a pact with you, Walt Whitman --
I have detested you long enough,
I come to you as a grown child
Who has a pig-headed father;
I am old enough to make friends.
It was you that broke the new wood,
Now is a time for carving.
We have one sap and one root --
Let there be commerce between us.