In just four lines, this tiny poem sketches a strange split in the self. The speaker talks about "my ruling itch," some restless urge or desire that normally runs the show. But now it "cannot find me." The speaker has slipped out of its reach, apparently by putting on a "company face," the polite mask we wear around colleagues, clients, or guests.
That face is "the color of a clock," which is a clever, slightly odd image. It suggests something blank, pale, and neutral, the face of someone just keeping time and getting through the hours. A clock face also tells everyone what to expect, and reveals nothing underneath.
The mood is wry and a little uneasy. There's humor in the idea of outwitting your own impulses, but also a hint of loss: if the itch can't find the speaker, maybe the speaker can't find themselves either. The poem leaves us with that quiet tension between self-control and self-disguise.