At the Tip

 Where fat snakes come to shed our skins

and slough them into giant bins;

the bric-a-brac of our past lives,

things unacceptable to wives,

the stuff that somehow failed to please,

the detritus of spending sprees.

Oh, how I once loved this TV

but now it’s just 1080p

and, man, I really can’t believe

I’m tossing out these DVDs

and when the fuck did I acquire

this shrink-wrapped boxset of The Wire?

That could have gone to charity

but that did not occur to me

until I’d queued right through the gate 

at which point it was far too late.

Oh look, it’s all my books from school

and all the clothes I thought were cool.

I feel a little prick of pain

but cannot take them home again

cos Donna says we need the space.

I only kept it all in case

we did a Polegate boot fair stall

where we could maybe flog it all

to, you know, folks with shitty lives

or, at least, less fussy wives

though Donna says there’s zero cash

in all my - I quote - “fucking trash”

so that pipe dream’s gone up in smoke

although check out my masterstroke:

when Donna asked about the loft

I made a face, grimaced and coughed,

reminded her about my back

and so deflected that attack.

Okay, that’s it. My skin is shed.

My former self is good and dead

so now I’ll make one final stop,

see what’s for sale at the tip shop.