There is no cheerful clatter of pans, or old Beatles records spinning in the living room. No warm cinnamon smell fills the air – only burnt coffee. For a moment, I'm half expecting Papa to swoop me up ... [+]
The girl upstairs doesn't know How old I am. I mean old old old I don't know either, I sit in my chair all day. Forever I have lived in this chair. I stare at the tree across the street. The lawn needs cutting. I smell the toast that young girl Makes, toast in the toaster. I know her footstep on the floor. I hear her in the morning. She eats toast all day, all day. At night she runs a bath, Never washes the tub, I never hear her wash the tub. She came down here once, locked Herself out of her room on the roof. Had to sneak through here—old folks Land—to get up and in. She looked like Grete