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