The poem moves like a mind wandering through a single day. It begins with an unseasonably warm winter morning, too mild for talk of an energy crisis, and perfect for love. Then a harder question cuts in: how can housework become creative? The speaker answers by drifting through half-quoted ideas about objects that are cherished, furniture "awakened" each morning, the strange pull of the word "wardrobe," and sheets as white as moonlight.
The mood is dreamy but slightly restless. There is real tenderness toward ordinary things, yet also tiredness, as the world seems "old" and "worn." The lack of full stops and the jumbled voices suggest a head full of chores and daydreams at once. The ending is wry. Common sense lives on the ground floor with everyone else, so anyone who wants to write must leave it behind and go down to the basement or up the stairs. Creativity, the poem hints, lives somewhere away from the everyday, even when it grows out of it.