Poem : Order / by Heather Taylor

Always late,
his habit of washing hands
poking spots, plucking brows
took over clock watching
the second hand unnoticed
until the time to go
came and gone.

Jokes passed through friends
“Need a watch mate?” or
“I know what to get for your
next birthday”. He shrugged
them off, questions unanswered.

They never saw him at night
coming home to dump his bag
laying its contents in
neat symmetrical rows
blowing dust out of corners
unable to sleep until
everything was just right.