Compulsivity

The older I get, it seems, the more

compulsive I become. Take that

lamp on the end table over there,

somehow it got arranged at the

wrong angle. Reposition it into its

proper place, my brain complains.

And while you’re at it, reshuffle

that stack of papers lying there all

cockeyed and catawampus. Make

the corners meet nice and neat, all

true and straight. Turn the TV a

smidgen to the left so you can better

see. The candle should be on the

right side and not the left. What was

I thinking? What in hell is wrong

with me. Positioning, it’s all about

the proper placement of that which

surrounds me. Adjust that picture

on the wall, a little to the left…

there that’s much better. You’d

think someone sneaked into my

place last night while I was asleep

and rearranged everything just to

piss me off. Drives me crazy, every-

thing seems out of place. Wash

your hands twice. You never can

tell where they might have been.

Now adjust the towel on its rack.

Align the top precisely with the

bottom so it hangs evenly in half.

And that’s that, the way damn stuff

ought to be. And now I’m ready to

sit in my proper place—position the

computer on my lap, situated on the

thighs, halfway between the hips

and knees so that I can comfortably

begin to write my poetry. It’s my poem,

you see, each word I choose is placed on

the page accordingly. But that’s just me

and how I see it, strange as it may seem.

When I was younger I didn’t have enough

time to really give a damn.

-30-

Chris Hanch 1-6-2020