I creep through the house in the dark morning
And find time lying abandoned in pools of night:
Tossed into corners, scattered on the floor, jumbled on the chairs.

I take an hour, maybe two, and use them for my own purposes.

Who will know? I will.

My conscience nags. “Sleep,” it says. “Or talk. Make coffee smells. These hours belong to someone else.”

“No,” I say. “They are mine. Because I took them.”