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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
perfectpoetry 