Room 214
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With the gentle tread of a librarian
Among closed stacks of forgotten volumes
So fragile they might crumble at a touch.
Mrs. Lovell — Angie she was —
In Room 214, glides again in sleep
Across the ice of Oldham’s Pond,
Her alabaster skates agleam
In the February sun of her eighth year.
Her bed will be available in the morning.
(The character portrayed in this work is fictional.)
