Sense of order
It’s
someone he oft pretends to be,
Morning come
and morning slung,
Evidence
of his neat manner apparent
In the
order of his everyday things,
Alphabetical,
sized, full-coloured,
Never at
a loss to find what he needs.
In time
he will come to understand
His self,
the world and time outside,
Life and
its disordered chaos on speed
Dial,
the undisputed challenger of order,
For now
he’ll let it roil against the wall,
Waves churning
on a tempestuous sea,
While he
sits inside his everygreen lifeboat,
Buoyed by
his hopes and his innocent love.
Copyright
Vickie Johnstone, October 14, 2020
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