It’s the Trojan horse in my house, in every house.
Cavernous over-belly concealing above every ceiling
forgotten items, the hoarding on the boarding,
stealthily growing immovably
items of worth – that’s the hope – convertible cash in the attic
the stash of bits and pieces large and small
old and new not on view,
furniture, papers, magazines, lampshades,
objets d’art, from which I couldn’t part,
records, ‘regrets’ I can’t let go
a mini department store and more above that trapdoor
the list goes on, too long to recount,
seasonal clothes, no longer seasonal, ageing
waiting to become vintage, revived, re-loved
or sent to the charity shop, labelled as pre-loved …
eventually when the realisation has dawned
in the dark recesses of my mind and beneath the eaves
they find they are no longer loved, wanted or needed,
hopes of usefulness receded or cash dashed,
objects of lost desire and conceit –
these are the troops of treachery and deceit
hoist aloft waiting to be released
from the hatch, no catch, no Odyssean plan,
just a task for a weary older man
(now a big ‘ask’)
compelled to do today with sorrow
what he kept putting off till tomorrow.