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.