My duvet

No, not that thing, the other one. Yeah, the thing on my bed.

Actually it's "The thing on my bed. No! Not that thing, the other one!"

I can safely say this poem exceeded the expectations promised by the title. Good job!

 Exceeds expectations.  I knew it would be something interesting with you though, Brian.  If anyone else had titled something "My Duvet" I would not have clicked on it. 
And that's about as warm and prais-y as I get. It's high praise. 
You'll understand. I'm a cynic. I just can't get all gushy over a poem about a duvet. But it's cute. You've got a rhyme going strongly in the first stanza that I don't really see carried through to the other two stanzas, but I'm not a fan of rhyming poetry anyways. You could go all-rhyme, no rhyme, partial rhyme, it's your poem. As long as it's a deliberate choice. 
Or you could even leave it the way it is. Don't you love choices? 

I could go for a duvet right about now. I'm freezing my arse off because certain people don't apparently believe in heating the house. 

It's not really about a duvet dawgs. It is a poem praising procrastination, and yet rueing it. Like when one hits snooze on their alarm in the morning, and settles into the duvet again, even though they are postponing the inevitable. It captures my life pretty ably right now. I just want this moment to last forever, even if I know it can't, and I'm not even happy in it.

But it is still about a duvet too.

It makes me want to walk away from my coffee and go get back into bed.  Nice work =)

That's what I wanted to do. Good to know.

And yes, I do like choices. I wish I had in infinite number of chioces. And I do. Its making the fuckers that gets me.

 No kidding.

It's nice to have choices. And then as soon as you make one, all the other little bastards go away and you no longer have choices.  So it's better to never make a decision so that you always have options. 

 That's why I never use fans in my home. 
I don't want any shit to hit it. 

You actually wrote a poem about your duvet. I tip my hat to you. Well, it's a beanie, so more move it slightly forward. 

You two crack me up.

On re-reading this it reminds me of Mushrooms By Sylvia Plath.

Except I don't care about women's rights.  Bwahahaha!

Making a choice is a doorway to other choices all waving the hands and shouting oh me like a class of second graders trying to gain the teachers attention. The more doors you go through the more likely you get the grade 10 science class where not one hand is raised and you have to work hard to find your choices then further examine them to decide which most suits your goal. Finally you enter a place dark and dim where there are no choices anymore they have all been made by you or by others for you and you are left alone with your choice. The days of the exuberant grade twos beyond a distant memory. Choices are sharp things they can cut in any direction and are hard to bend to your will. Choices are definitely things that should be left outside the duvet lest they rob you of sleep.

I can see what you mean about the similarities to Mushrooms.

I think the whole poem works well! It feels warm and comforting, which are always qualities that I like!