She'd always been a tidy girl -
Her toys in boxes every night,
Her homework neat and laces tight -
But now she tidied in a whirl.

A fury had possessed her mind
And grabbed at anything she saw
To cast it out; and then to claw
At every object, as if blind.

From twists of fluff to her own bed,
She filed or threw out almost all,
Not hearing anybody's call,
Nor answerphone, unplugged and dead.

Eventually, to the tip
Went all the things she'd do without:
Even photos suffered doubt
And made the final, tragic trip.

No carpets; radiators cold:
Magnolia, like when she came;
Dry ceiling cracks filled in again.
The flat was bare, and quickly sold.

They couldn't work out what she'd done
To stop the junk mail getting through.
Her thoroughness was frightening, too -
She'd found a foster for her son.

Maybe there's something she had feared
So much she couldn't leave a note,
Could tell us why she never wrote
Since when she simply disappeared.

No forwarding address for her,
No bank accounts to track her down
Nor single hint left in the town -
No clues to which we could refer.

She'd vacuumed fingerprints away
And swept the loft until it glowed;
She'd paid off every penny owed
And, that last month, took cash for pay.

Her car was left, with keys inside,
Though locked, in her old firm's car park,
Apparently while it was dark -
For no-one saw her final drive.

She's gone. And yet she told no-one,
As if to leave one secret taunt,
An absent tease she'll always flaunt,
A sick idea of endless fun.
(A way of claiming she has won.)