Underneath a Mountain Known for Calico

No, it’s true there was no town.
Not everyone can even
Imagine one. But there was

A room, and then another,
And another, sometimes shared,
Sometimes with a wall between,

Sometimes with a whole hallway,
Finally a flight of stairs.
Actually, it was the beds,

Not the rooms, that were like towns,
Each one a tiny township,
Starting with the first real crib,

A handsome cherry wood thing
Of slats and sides that lifted
Grandfather had assembled.

It was the beds had townsfolk,
Stuffy citizens, pictures
In books, impossible beasts

That changed, slowly, over years,
A population that waxed
And waned, the way towns will do.

There were years when everyone
Had their own established roles
As well as their precise names,

And politics abounded.
Citizens made scenes, stories
Spilled over to other beds

And rooms. A society.
Then it gradually faded.
Honorary elders stayed.

New books and other stories
Outnumbered stuffy townsfolk.
The whole town moved up the stairs.