The Cellar Billet Poem by B. V. Dahlen

Dimpled walls of peeling pink
and climbing pipes in lofty spaces....
My subterranean boudoir.

The cables that suspend my bed
for folding during daylight hours
leave lines that brand me every dawn.

On warmer nights the inconsistent floor
bleeds grubby glue between the tiles,
while mismatched chests stand guard
in the lumpy corners of my chamber.

Once fair and leaded glass adorned
the shuddering threshold of the space.
Now gaping vacancies reveal
a narrow laundry passage.

The steady click of metered gas....
A metronome that speeds my dreams.

A flimsy, unlatched, pleated wall
conceals me from my siblings
when privacy is sought.

A polished, black companion
greets me on my pillow top,
his antennae waving nightly greetings
and I scream.