© Bower Bird
Some call it rubbish or garbage, waste or trash.
Others call it refuse, debris, litter, junk...
But I live with a woman, who instead sees only cash,
She’s Steptoe’s offspring – a rag ‘n’ bone queen;
She keeps it all in a trunk...
And in boxes, bags and carryalls in the garage and the shed.
It’s in all the cupboards and the wardrobia;
In the hall and pantry and a large part of my head!
She’s Second-hand Rose – in preloved clothes;
A fear of newness - Cainotophobia.
She knows all the op-shops in cities and towns.
The junk shops and antiques and garage sales;
She knows by instinct when a business closes down.
She’s the original liquidator – a Bower Bird;
Just manages to keep out of gaol.
She found an old chandelier in a box in the street:
Dirty, disfigured and neglected.
Took it home, spruced up and rewired it came up a treat!
She’s a shrewd negotiator; she took it to a market.
Made more dough than anyone suspected...
In addition she sells knitwear, beads, lemons, trinkets,
Old toys to old boys (she has strange friends).
Sand to the Arabs if she could risk it.
She’s a picker with her eyes all a flicker,
A complete eccentric who avoids all the trends.
I can’t complain, she keeps me in T-shirts...
Jeans, jumpers and all manner of stuff.
Like books and old battered ukuleles and crap ‘til it hurts.
She has Disposophobia – she hoards like a squirrel for winter.
At times I must tell her: Enough!
So what is rubbish? It’s hard to define...
Trash or treasure, merchandise or muck?
She finds stuff and uses it, keeps her amused for a time.
She even collected me who’d been manacled before.
I’ll be sold on the stall myself next week – I’ve run out of luck!