Writing's Appeal (repost)

This is a poem I wrote in July of 2009. I'd been feeling particularly sedentary, and am sure this made me feel a little better, like it justified my stillness a bit. I wanted to revisit it today, because so many of us are dealing with crummy winter weather and that silly cabin fever.

Here, then, is writing's appeal:

He writes to create.
She to storytell.
It's the call of the craft,
it's a love of the skill.

But I'll tell you a secret,
if you'll lean in real close:
I've got one reason
and I like it the most.

Should I be honest?
I suppose I can say:
See, when writing,
being lazy's okay.

You just sit at your desk;
it's the easiest work.
No exercise/exertion.
No way to get hurt.

What? Yeah, you're right,
but side effects are small.
A crick in the neck
or Carpal Tunnel, is all.

I can think of worse things.
I'll give you examples.
Like, would you spot check
those dentures of Grampa's?

Work outside in the yard
on sore, bended knee,
wearing shorts (and underwear
prone to wedgie)?

Bathe the fridge.
Oh, cripes, what is that?
I'll just close the door,
hide the mold in the back.

I could dust the shelves,
ABC all the books.
Make sure all my rugs
have been vacuumed and shook.

But none of that's fun.
Don't you agree?
I'd much rather sit, lazy,
and be writerly.