The Need for Order

Comes upon me in my middle years

like the settling of a house,

the cracks so gradual

I can't recall the ceiling smooth,

the corners square.

No one cares but me

the furniture's sneaking from its spot

like children playing Red Light Green Light

on the lawn I mow twice a week.

Everything is slipping from its place:

The travel posters in their frames.

The philodendrons always turning toward the light.

Blue jeans my sons drop careless on the floor

to shrink a little every day.

At least I have my study.

No one but me reshelves a book.

The plants stay silk.

The sharpened pencils on my desk wait

straight as pickets,

dominoes in a row.