My father was a man of discipline.
He understood campaigns. Each strategy
was vascular, protected by a skin
composed of tactics fighting entropy.
So Dad was firm but fearful of routine;
he didn’t want to live as habit’s troll.
Each quarter he revised his morning scene,
fanatically, lest mindlessness control.
I used to laugh at the rigidity
with which he battled autonomic rule,
but then I met my own affinity,
the OCD, how fast I run on fuel
from habit I disdain and then repel:
I comprehend obsessive changing well.