I know I’m not a workaholic, now
I’ve stopped the daily office job. I see
instead the lists and multi-tasks were how
I managed the responsibility
my choosing work and husbands, children too,
imposed upon the time I thought I’d waste
if I avoided stress. That point of view
produced results, but joy was spent in haste.

Eight hundred months of age, and I at last
lay down the files. Gazing at the sky,
I sit and settle into nothing fast,
my biggest choice the moment to get high.
I’ve earned some unproductive time at home,
but first I make myself compose a poem.

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