A person sits alone on their bed, and the bed, as if it were a worried friend, asks why their eyes are red. The speaker is clearly upset or has been crying, but they don't say why. Instead of answering, they change the subject and tell the bed not to worry about them, but about its own springs, which could go rusty.
That dodge is the heart of the poem. The speaker hides sadness behind a small, almost silly complaint: "I hate rusty things." It's a way of deflecting a question that feels too hard to answer. The repeated words ("alone, alone," "why, why," "worry, worry") work like an echo in an empty room, which underlines the loneliness.
The mood is quiet, gentle, and a little sad, but with a touch of dry humor. Giving the bed a voice makes the speaker's isolation feel real: the only one asking about their feelings is a piece of furniture.