So perfectly you don’t
Want to touch a thing
Or else you have the strong feeling
Everything must be rearranged
According to your own inerrant sense of drama
The tables must go first
Those curtains and the murky chairs
The floors scrubbed bare
What I had in mind
Was more of an assemblage
Of options and concerns
But then I could see
You’d thought of everything
Even the silliest whims
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