The Skip
Spring-feverish I cheerfully dispatch
my clutter, bits and bobs into the skip
and from the bedroom window keep a watch
on neighbours filing past the funeral ship.
And later in the evening they will bring
additional detritus of their own
in royal cheek or gentle reasoning:
tomorrow’s trip should not be made alone.
The suburb waits for one last visitor
to creep around the corner of the past.
What buried chalice is he looking for,
grave robber turning archaeologist?
Now climbing up to brag about his find,
his shadow ribbing my venetian blind.
The King of Suburbia
Like any Wenceslas I must look out
beyond the castle gate to know my realm,
with neither page or courtier about
to see me gingerly let go the helm.
Each early morning Saturday I rise
and leave aside the sceptre and the crown.
Unshaven and unshowered, I disguise
the stamp & coin of profile, dressing down
in faded denim of the lower rank.
Long ere the royal princes will awake,
I place a box of empties in the boot
and, setting forth toward the bottle-bank,
seat-belted earl of Park & Close, I take
a twenty-one black wheelie-bin salute.
City Love
You look into your true love’s eye
To see what terms & conditions apply
Although your offer of love is rejected
Your statutory rights are not affected
The sweetest love’s in anticipating
The customer knows a call is waiting
Your call, more lovely than that of the linnet
Is charged at fifty-eight pence per minute
Counting the cost of true love’s obsession
Failure to meet payments can mean repossession
How many I-love-you departures before you learn
Past performance is no guarantee of future return
