It is noon
And I still lie in supine
Under my palace of ink-stained bedding
Smelling the day two aroma of the fresh sheet
I stretch my limbs
Toe prints pad the cave I’ve made
Before retracting knee to pit
Am I a happy baby?
Or a lost pup
Chasing the duvet’s tale instead of the day?
This energy-zapping attempt to avoid
That violet room we were birthed from
And will consume us when the dog has had its day
Under waffled wonder-cotton
Where Procrastination lies
Avoidance often orchestrates my own demise