Can one be said to truly be alone
When one is being laid upon by dogs
Until they bark at passers-by unknown
And neighbors out for their respective jogs?
No. Solitude’s the proper name for this,
Now liberated from all obligation,
Except for those I’ve chosen. I don’t miss
The trappings of external expectation,
But bliss and boredom cannot coexist,
And guilt that I relax while others work
Cannot be expeditiously dismissed
Without the niggling fear that I’m a jerk.
I justify indulging selfish wishes
By rolling up my sleeves and doing dishes.