Chuckout in our street
Lined with stuff once owned
Cushions dusty, faded
Smelly carpet curling at the edges
Unwanted cracked dishes
Boxes square, oblong,small and large
boxes storing stuff
stacked along our walls
But we could never see inside
so opened up to find
then left them open on our floors
insides spilling out
You might be next
Some of the pile has gone already
One person's rubbish another's treasure.
Please ,please stop bringing home your finds :
replenishing emptied spaces
what goes out comes back
full measure .
Meanwhile the skies darken
as they did last Chuckout Day.
Rain falls softly on the funeral pyre
the wind begins.
Dead things sprawling limp and scattered :
Old clothes, paper,broken chairs........
the paraphenalia of our lives
lies in sodden heaps on muddied ground .