In the Attic

The brass bed is there, and the haspy trunk

 My doll is inside with her blue net dress,

Remember her brown painted hair?

I see Hamster resting in a winter bushel basket

 Frozen, curled into an arc.

 I try to thaw him out, but things have gone too far.  

There's the ukelele on the baseboard track,

 Pulsing along, measuring the sound,

 Spinning up the tune, tying things together.

What do I do with the old bedspread?

 Fine woven sleeps,

 Fresh made mornings. 

I‘d give it away if I could.