My Writing Chair

I’m sitting in my writing chair, (Though I can write most anywhere) Surrounded by familiar things While thoughts and rhymes develop wings. My feet are resting on the bed On which a checkered quilt is spread And out my windows, I espy A few tall buildings and some sky. My chair is denim blue and snug; It comforts me just like a hug. It doesn’t rock and can’t recline; The body in it’s mostly mine. There’s Mozart playing – pure delight, Though quiet’s better when I write. Still, somehow I’ll produce a poem, For in my chair, I’m truly home.