I woke early this morning
surprised to be asleep in my chair.

Little creaks and aches greeted my
Tired mind as I floated clumsily down

the still darkened hall. As I
drifted back to sleep in my waiting

and welcoming bed, I wondered
if I would dream of my soft and

overstuffed chair. The dreams were
alive and boisterous, but alas,

I was a little saddened that my chair
played no memorable part. As I sip

my bold and hot coffee this bold morning,
memories return of moments spent

in my chair.

Weeks I spent in my new and open space,
bare of the barest of necessities.

Until one day, a fellow worker, a fellow walker
offered me the gift of his old chair.

His expectant wife expected a more suitable chair.
His expectant life left little room for an old

and overstuffed piece, cluttering an otherwise
uncluttered and blessed new life blazing with

the expectant bliss. So I needed a chair; the
chair needed a home - a welcome addition

to a full life in an empty space. My chair.
Cherished and comfortable. Home.

Last weekend, my daughter, so precious to me
found a few moments of comfort in my chair.

She is still, yet no longer, a little girl. She looked
both small and grown in my chair. For a moment

she was home in my home. She was home
in my chair.

I borrowed from the local library, just around
the corner, a collection of poems. Several of these

I read to my love. I read them to my love over
the phone, sitting

in my chair.

My love asked me to write a poem. A poem whose
subject was common. A simple poem

of my chair.