The dusty light bulb illuminates the pigeonhole,
An alcove in the wall to place my keys.
Quills litter the hollow nook,
begging for scribed contingencies.
I surrender. I write. I ink the white flag.
Steep ladders and a hearty platform.
An inventive way to swiftly transfer groceries,
from the growling machine to my quiet abode.
A terrace, to watch the machinery across the street.
To feel home, without being home.
The iron fire escape.
A chaotic disarray of mismatched trinkets,
Such brilliant treasures.
Gem-clustered brooches, porcelain kittens, china tea sets.
The arabesqued novelties fashion ivory cabinets,
Enchanting the kitchen niche.
Simple pleasures.
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