Me? I’m a hoarder, you’re a new broom;

Consigning the past to oblivion

Simply to make more room

Always struck me as a heartless act,

Cocking a snook at life’s precious moments.

But maybe you’re right and I’m wrong;

Stockpiling rooms with mementoes,

Childhood drawings, cards, the odd old song

Is uselessly saying that time can be caught,

Life’s golden moments bought,

Making a liar of the grandfather clock in the corner.

I’m a hoarder and for that I apologise,

For I am the one blocking the doorway,

Inviting pizza-sized spiders into the fireside cupboards,

Jamming kitchen drawers with snippets of useless information

That is probably ill-gotten and best forgotten

For in your world the day itself is what’s precious,

Live for that, carpe diem, who am I to smell a rat?


Ah the moving van peeps round the corner,

Appearing like the spectre at the feast,

Subliminally suggesting

‘Now for some home truths’

Me? I’m nervous, sweat caking my brow,

You poise over each box like an executioner,

‘downsizing’ the term over which you gloat;

I flick away the sweat, nervously fingering my throat.moving-van

© Alan Combes, 2019. All Rights Reserved

Alan Combes