In the last hour, tired of speeches,
blue upholstered chairs entice.
Out here, it is quiet and the wind
screams up through the shaft
of the elevator and hurried feet
shuffle across carpet. Suddenly
you are six and the cord and pulley
of your window shade clangs against
the frame in the screen-fed breeze,
the slow sail of the typewriter’s carriage
back to the left margin. How everything
takes us back to childhood. To where
our stories first begin to hit the air.