Second-Hand Life

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SECOND-HAND LIFE

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I stand by the door of a second-hand store the entrance surrounded by trinkets,

tattered and torn or shining as new laid out for display on this damp overcast day.

I shake off the rain as I enter.

Adjust to the dim does my eyes; look from the floor then raise

to this cavern of treasure, market of junk from the persons who cast them aside.

A volunteer staff at the counter, another sorting stock, hair wild & grey she chatters

with plenty but nothing to say.

Eyes righted – pupil’s wide – searching corners so nothing can hide,

lifting boxes, turning books, search through cloths neatly hung on hooks.

Not much I see on this journey so far “that chest could be handy & so could that frame”

I’m sure at home I have a dozen the same.

A while has now passed; I’ve searched bottom too top, through items of many,

stuff I could use from table mats with coasters too a pair of brown shoes,

nothing jumps out on my trip to the store, same old, same old, just a bit of a bore.

Until I trip upon a lump on the floor, hurts my foot as I give it a boot, I realise it’s harder than me,

under the cover it’s hidden beneath – is a face only mother could love,

twisting my head this way and that, intrigued by this thing as I stoop from above.

hunched and squat, claws gripping a rock it stares with its beady small eyes,

rounded belly it’s not hard to guess which one of us ate all the pies.

Now off to the counter I take my prize, as I walk the street home it’s hard to disguise.

I clean and I spray with a glittery gold, I move it from this shelf to that,

then I remember a gargoyle’s a guard – so my entrance hall its proudly sat.

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To my mate who’s so proud of his golden gargoyle, bless him.

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Author – Richard Gray

My Mate In A Pot

 

We’ve driven miles and miles my mate and I, I chat away, he says nothing.

I choose the route, the music, the destination, he chooses nothing, but he’s still by my side.

I stop for a break, something he doesn’t need, nor snack or water to quench his thirst.

I smile when I see his smile, broad from ear to ear, his eyes would light.

He is neither seatbelt strapped or viewing the world go by, but is watching everything.

His patience has no limit, wisdom beyond the years he has behind him.

I dive into the car after a mad dash from the pounding rain,

Shake and brush myself to a dryer state, I make sure he isn’t wet, sealed in his pot, water tight.

Many times I’ve thought of leaving him places, places I think he’d like,

But then my selfish side takes over, the side that can’t say goodbye, can’t let go.

So there he sits, waiting.

His last breath taken on this earth yet four years gone, cancer.

That pot of ash, a spice pot, it’s not really him I know, yet I see the pot it brings him back to life for a split,

Soon I will dust him on the ground, a place I think he’ll like,

Green fields will surround him as he melts into the earth,

His last journey taken by my side.

Author – Richard Gray