It was a good day to be alone,
she thought,
reacquainting myself with silence
and with the sophistication of books
from before I was born.

It was a good day to be alone,
because when I tried to be a grown-up
I burned breakfast
and just know that any witnesses
would never let me forget it.

It was a good day to be alone,
she admitted,
stretching out across the carpet,
cats perched beneath me
as I attempted a downward dog;
I can do yoga when I feel like it.