I write on a rocking chair

Uncle Julian left me. It has an Indian rug
with fringe at the top & bottom thrown over
the cushions because the cats scratched them
to hell and puffin'. The rug is thick, worn,
good texture, too big for the cushions
& faded orange & gold which goes good
with the cherry wood of the chair.
The keyboard's on my lap & my barefeet
are up & crossed to the right of the blonde
wooden box the monitor perches on. I don't
think much else of the real world exists when
I'm writing.