I am the Scottish nanny
of my own sweet self,
a parsimonious ninny
(for that’s a word nannies
favor for those they barely love).

I collect objects emptied
from their previous purpose,
useful jars and boxes,
already anyway purchased
and now mine for the doing.

Or perhaps just for the owning,
a stash or stack in evidence
as to my ability to provide
and count in some number.
My alms against the poor.

Eventually this self-satisfaction
meets the balance of my nature
(as the child confronts its father)
and in a swoop I free myself
from this other by throwing it all away.

For in tidiness and its emptiness
there is another form of control
disguised in light as freedom
while this same man kills pantry moths
each morning before heading for the sun.