The Watch Man -- version 1.1

[Lizzie]

You are the Watch Man—
    —synchronized—
       on time,
       in rhyme,
       clock chime.

Your ideas are precise
       and p.u.n.c.t.u.a.t.e.d.

Your t's are always perfect,
       a package intact,
       like little perfect crosses.

Your baptism beliefs
    —so streamlined—
       are written clean
       in decisive cursive—
       one-sided, double spaced
       on yellow legal pads—
       then filed in cold, smooth cabinets,
       in manila envelopes,
       sealed with lined, white labels.

You are a trash compactor
       feeding yourself archaic decay
       that you force into cubes
       with magnificent effort,
       bending rust
       into sharpened edges.

Oh, dad, what a sin I am to you,
       the foul stench
       of curved flesh
       in your solid, metal cubes—
       the i missing its dot.

---

Edit 1

You are the Watch Man –
    – synchronized –
       on time,
       in rhyme,
       clock chime.

Your ideas are precise
       and p.u.n.c.t.u.a.t.e.d.

Your t's are always perfect,
       a package intact,
       like little perfect crosses.

Your baptism beliefs
    – so streamlined –
       are written
          clean
       in decisive cursive –
          one-sided,
       double spaced on black
          ruled
       tablets – then filed in cold,
          smooth          
       cabinets, in manila envelopes,
          sealed
       with lined, white
          labels.

You are a trash compactor
       feeding yourself archaic decay
       that you force into cubes
       with magnificent effort,
       bending rust
       into sharpened edges.

Oh, dad, what a sin I am to you,
       the foul stench
       of curved flesh
       in your solid, metal cubes –
       the i missing its dot.

---

Original Version:

You are the Watch Man
  —synchronized—
     on time,
     in rhyme,
     clock chime.

Your ideas are precise
     and p.u.n.c.t.u.a.t.e.d.

Your t's are always perfect,
     a package intact,
     like little perfect crosses.

Your baptism beliefs
  —so streamlined—
     are written clean
     in decisive cursive—
     one sided, double spaced
     on a ruled yellow legal pad—
     then filed neat in gray cabinets,
     in beige manila envelopes,
     sealed with lined, white labels.

You are a compactor,
     feeding yourself archaic decay
     that you force into cubes
     with magnificent effort,
     bending rust
     into sharpened edges.

Oh, dad, what a sin I am to you,
     the foul stench
     of curved flesh
     in your solid, metal cubes—
     the i missing its dot.

(Slight edits in response to feedback, 7/1/16.)