The Life of An Easy Chair

I settle myself,
stretching my legs onto the ottomon,
shifting to find the perfect posture
the chair demands for optimal comfort.
My intent is to read,
to hold a book in the pose of middle age,
arm extended,
glasses sliding down my nose.
Then they settle themselves,
one at a time,
the black, the gray, the orange striped,
the white on my shoulder.
The rumble begins,
little claws press, seeking purchase,
mutely calling to home, to mother.
Book abandoned,
draped in living fur,
My sigh joins the rumble
of purring cats.

Copyright 2005.

poetry