I fold my undershirts neatly into two piles
and wear them in order everyday.

I load the dishwasher with cups on the same side,
dishes and pots and pans juxtaposed below.

The shorts are packed in boxes this off season,
plaid and plain and cargo and linen and playful.

My ties wrap around pegs, hovering with their color kin,
locked in a staring contest with my belts of varying lengths.

And I wait for my prize,
the gold star I was long promised.

And I wait for it to be all right,
for the truth to be delivered.

And I wait for the secret to be told,
for the big reveal from above.

And I wait for the passion to erupt,
destroying my world and its cruel deceptions,
its lies and its deceits and its poverty,
and its crude black infections.

I pray for the light to crash down about me,
to obliterate my enemies and my sins,
to capture my orderly soul, and
gnaw its bones clean from within.

My dress shirts hang with collars in one direction,
by color coordinated, dark to light.