Well, one is better than none. I failed to come up with a second poem. I did, however, mine this one from a Poetic Asides prompt of writing about a type of person.
The OCD Neighbor
At the hint of fair weather
he emerges with a bottle of
dish soap, a sponge and a bucket.
He pulls his wife's car into
the street and then proceeds to
remove the wheels from his truck,
hose down the flatbed and pull
all of the mats out.
This will go on for hours between
both vehicles until every lugnut
is perfectly shined and every
fiber of carpeting is without dirt.
His Camaro remains cocooned under
a gray cover with buckets of
chlorine around it to keep the
squirrels from eating through the fabric.
The driveway will also get the treatment
and the water and suds from his work
gather in the front of my driveway.
He tells me the disease drives him crazy
but he can't help it,
and I almost want him to invite me into
his house, where he would undoubtedly
have me remove my shoes as I tiptoe
from room to room,
while he carefully pours water into a
coffeemaker and wipes away the slight dust
on the lid, while I plan this poem
and write it in my dusty office hours later,
a room that would have him twitching.