A poem a day keeps the doctor away,
But what if neither poetry nor medicine can heal this dismay?
The seat that I sit in is locked in its ways,
And no musical chair can get it to play.
The tides of the ocean may continue to sway,
And the transition be made between night and day,
But not even the changing of the seasons has a say,
In how stuck this seat will continue to stay.
I wish I could stand, and move for awhile,
I wish I could run, maybe even a mile.
Oh the things I'd do, I'd cross the Nile!
But the chair is me, and I'm stuck to the tile.