A young woman spends her twenty-second birthday in bed, and she isn't sure whether to feel guilty or simply stuck. The setting makes it sharper. Her apartment is on Rue Bergére, and she calls the city around her "the most beautiful city moulded by man." Judging by the street name and the French spelling, this is likely Paris, though the poem never says so outright.
The repetition does a lot of work. She tells us twice that she stayed in bed, and the second time she slows down and adds the birthday, as if the fact still surprises her. The short, flat lines sound tired, almost like a confession. Then the last question turns the poem. She wonders why anyone would build such a beautiful place for people like her, who don't go out and enjoy it. The tone is wry and a little sad. It's self-mocking, but it also hints at loneliness, or at the odd pressure of feeling that a special day in a lovely place ought to be used better.