I guess I should mention the eagle.
On the ceiling above the mantle and just to the right of my bed someone once painted a roughly six foot square mural of our national bird. It looks more like a deformed and warlike turkey, what with the American flag and arrows in its talons, but hey, it was painted in 1806, so it ain’t going anywhere. If I close my right eye or look slightly to the left, though, I can look up without having to see the thing. The ceiling over my bed is curved, fifteen feet high at its apex, and made of old plaster, so with its waves and undulations it is like gazing up at the sky.
My bed occupies part of my gigantic studio apartment, which was once the ballroom of an inn constructed in 1775. If I prop myself up on an elbow I can gaze out one of the eight windows and watch the steeples climb the hill across the river. It’s like loft living, Revolutionary War style. Or I can roll over, and if the fucking, way-too-early sun has risen a bit, look at the grand old “broccoli tree” out the window next to the bed. I am an insomniac, so the bed has become a cozy nest for poems to germinate as the nighttime hours trundle slowly past, a place to read, binge-watch Californication, or play a little slap and tickle with the muse, who has a key and knows I’ll be sleeping late.