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August 16, 2016



The mail that landed on my mat

was no surprise at all.

The contents ever familiar,

the colour black, ready to install.


The ‘undoing’ not worth the effort;

the parcel sellotaped for dear life.

I cut my finger opening it,

with the very sharpest knife.


The length not to my liking,

the material, cheap as could be.

No future funerals will see it

on the back of me.


No room inside my wardrobe;

the hangers full of sable black.

With clothes for every occasion,

most heading for a charity sack.


Some too good to throw out;

others of sentimental appeal.

But most just friendly neighbours,

living in a tomb of dark – unreal !


The mail that landed on my mat;

a nightmare to my ears.

I knew it would be joining a queue

of ‘perhaps’,  ‘maybe’ and ‘no fear’s’.


The unpicking not worth the effort,

as once tampered with, the end in sight.

And the ‘will I’ – ‘won’t I’, keep it’ option

gone out the window, taking flight.


The pattern not to my liking;

the ordering, a habit to flee.

No future purchase will I make.

I can promise this to thee.


No room inside my wardrobe.

The hangers go on the attack,

with clothes so heavily loaded,

heading for another charity sack.


All too good to throw out,

and with ‘Retro’ back in it’s heyday,

A car-boot sale the answer,

but will I part with them? – No Way.












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