I question
my own hand
this blank page -
observe my own habits
like a stranger
helpless to stop:
I like my escapes,
sink into them
like new wool
slippers,
a worn pair
of perfect fitting boots.
I sleep in on Sunday
because I can.
Should I be better than this?
better than I am?
Or are we here to enjoy,
to be in joy?
To sink into the sunlight
that's given us,
to finally have
a room of our own,
and the freedom
to stay
or go.