I'm dreaming, but I'm sure Sylvia & Ted came by here.
I saw it in a film once.

The perfect escape, a concentration camp for the creative mind to
flourish, yes, not flounder, no, or bake cakes.

The glass looks ready to withstand any tempestuous
thrown paper cannon, pen or food,

but those cakes (so rocklike, almost coastal bed)
might do the desired damage. Symbolic.

As the flour runs out like the departing tide it appears
la Luna still holds the door key & refuses

(most unladylike, we do concur, and are shocked by)
to return the reason you stay here.

Searching in vain. Ah poor soul.
A leaf turned away from comforting branch & tossed like a careless saladeer would.

Dry nibs do nothing for the fretted mind
dry, dry, dry

of anything beyond scones (remember: cheese & chives)
or rolls or doughnuts or pastries or

everything else not covered in ink
loved by a daisy wheel or

flat, black, white and (hoping pretentiously to be) read.
If it ever arrives. No paroxysms here.

And we thought the place (a view to die for, &
kills creativity too! Bargain!)

might just do that trick missing from the line-up of late:
awaken the mind extinguished, exhausted; dry, dry, dry.