The man who irons
The lavender linen shirt
Looks out for the creases
Finds the perfect places
To press the lines
Of fabric together
The man who writes
Whatever it is that he writes
Can rarely find
The straight lines to follow
Instead, he feels
For the torn fabrics of his life
And so it was
By being distracted
That I arrived half an hour before
The allocated time
Which left me searching
For the lost lines of connection
