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The trestles creak beneath
Their burden, mess
Of things once fresh, twice faded,
Once a joy, now jaded,
Semi-garbage, hoarded
Then discarded, dumped in hope
That someone’s need give flimsy meaning
To the donor’s lucky life.

There’s clothes of course,
Whose owners used to stroke, inhale,
They basked within the novelty.
Fingers now touch very gingerly,
Noses twitch in fear of whiff.

There’s toys, huge chunks of childhood,
All need mending – wheel bent, arm gone,
Parts, instructions missing,
Jigsaws leaving bits to the imagination.

There’s books with lurid covers,
With tales as fast forgotten as compiled;
Ashtrays scarred with stubbing,
Crocks with crazed glaze, and
Lidless pans with chips in the enamel.

There’s rarities, treasures? One might hope,
A gem which might complete
A connoisseur’s collection?
Well if there was, he’s been and gone
And snapped it up for pennies
Leaving just the junk.

There’s objects by the hundred
For museums – of tomorrow, there’s the rub;
You may decide to store them up,
But by the time their value’s realised
You’ve long returned to Mother,
So why bother? The binman
Gets us all. In the end.

From my collection "Signwriting"

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