A Pome a Day for a Year

The seat upon which I lodge,
oh, this is the spot,
this padded comfort cups my
bottom, putting me at the right
height to attack keyboards
and without this chair,
it would be a terribly
painful event!

But to suffer for art!
Only if you can, or shall I
try differing forms, like
writing with a headache,
or perhaps with both feet
tied to your chair, or a
small feather crushing in
constant upon toesies.

I like to write in pillowy, soft
jumper and cloth,
cuddling me like a big old
toy (only not a bear because
then I would be smothered)
and I wish I could hug back.
A wardrobe of jumpers
is what I would call the
most heavenly closet
and perhaps, should the weirdest
thing ever happen, and
there is an afterlife,
I become
swallowed by wool!