Pleasure

wordsout by godfrey rust
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The Trap...

Pleasure

On Sunday afternoon
if I am in a grump
I give myself a treat
and go off to the dump.

I pack up all the papers.
I pull on my old slacks.
I put the garden debris
into big black plastic sacks.

Sort the cardboard boxes,
spill a drop of wine,
lots of glass and bottles—
surely not all mine?

With a sheet protecting
the floor from nasty gunk
I load the jolly Volvo
with a Volvo-load of junk.

The cheery council worker
waves me on my way.
If I only had more rubbish
I could go there every day!

Then on Tuesday after breakfast,
I find a sheaf of fun
in stationery bliss
in W H Smith & Son.

I love the coloured refills,
the plastic folios,
the little packs of labels
set neatly out in rows,

and when the aisle is empty
I make a furtive raid
on the special top-shelf section
where ring-binders are displayed.

Sometimes I make a purchase,
more often I just browse,
for sadly there’s a limit
to the filing I can house.

If I buy a new desk-tidy
or some Lever Arches, say,
then it only means more old stuff
that I’ll have to throw away

so on Sunday afternoon
if I am in a grump
I give myself a treat
and go off to the dump . . .