No items are found out of place;
20 inches each side of the vase.
No angles are left to be turned;
The dust never settles; it’s spurned.
No books will be left upside down
Or magazines scattered around.
The photos are sorted and stored;
To display would be striking discord.
For with no correct categorisation
What’s left is sheer abomination.
The walls painted white floor to ceiling;
Too much colour would be so revealing.
The display of the personal articles
Will dismantle the person to particles:
The teeth, the hair and the feet
Bring forth notions that we are but meat.
Existentialist angst is intrusive;
Must clean to make it conducive.
To sort and to file is to calm,
To primp and to preen is to balm.
but the real world is messy and cluttered
it’s chaotic it’s jumbled it’s smelly
it’s unpredictable not tidy but dirty
it’s muddled disordered and disarrayed
just like this last rhyme
but that is OK