Neatnik
Clifford Browder

​
In my time-worn, shabby apartment
I wind clocks, dust surfaces,
Trim orientals raveling at the edges,
Wipe mildewed shower curtains,
Stack deftly on a shelf
Fragile dishes enticed by gravity,
Turn a mattress whose springs
Jut into the intimacies of love,
Mend aging, torn umbrellas.
A neatnik at war with disorder,
I’m fighting off the all-consuming maw
And greedy gut
Of the Bitch of Chaos
Who hungers for the feast of my extinction,
Eager to devour
That delicate construct, my life.