Is this allowed?

Wrote this poem yesterday morning while dogsitting for a sweet Frenchie in a beautiful BK apt. My friend's 40th bday was the inspiration, as was a late night text from my old roommate, now mom of two.

Is this allowed?

To stare at the treetops from my window. Full cream in my coffee. Silk around the new day.

Is this allowed?

The falling sigh of the French bulldog, who is weary from the glory of existing.

Is this allowed?

To marvel at the silent morning. Turning off the air conditioning because I cannot tolerate the sound.

No children pulling at my hours or plucking at my heartstrings.

Is this allowed?

To read George Saunders and say, Well, how did he think of that? Willie Lincoln… languishing in the bardo before passing. Hmm.

Is this allowed?

To pull out my calendar and ask, How much more can I fill with me? Excising what offends my fragile sensibilities.

Is this allowed?

And are they fragile? Or do I wage a worthy tantrum of distaste for anything false to me?

In my time here, how true can I make it be?

Is this allowed?