I chip at list of tasks, drill into chores,
And charge across responsibilities
As budgets wobble, expectation soars,
And leisure time contracts. Ambition’s fees
Pour pressure onto hope. So I retreat
To yoga mat, to hillside stroll, to book
And evening nap. Let fans praise every feat.
I’m flesh and flaw, stubbed toe and aching back,
A tantrum here, cold silence there, some one
To idolize, then blame. I need my friends
Who let me bump and burp and fail–and run
Free, who don’t plot for favors or depend
On fantasies of me. I need a stroll
And song to hum, as well as plan and goal.