Sitting in My Swivel Chair

By John I. Blair

Sitting in my swivel chair
Squinting at the monitor,
Finger-tapping through the day,
I can see across a spotted floor
Down a short and sketchy hall
A dim and dusty kitchen
Where a window, scarcely two by two,
With sash and pane and rusty screen
Frames some tufts of mockorange leaves,
Flocks of raucous sparrow birds,
Elm limbs arced in majesty,
A hint of squirrel circus tricks,
Sunshine, shadow, showers of rain.

But that is there; and I am here.

©2005 John I. Blair