Junk Collector

Always been a collector of bits and bobs and junks,
Collecting little stories in thimbles, books and stuff
Which no one else loved.
Their shadows were those of ages before,
When they were the first thing picked up when their owner opened the door.
Sad and lost little thins I would pick up off the odd shelf
Or two, finding in them a reflection of myself.

Above my head is a line of collectable bears
And some odd metal men and a pair of fighter mice
That I stole from ‘Mikes’.
Nobody like the fluffy Dalmatian,
I placed tenderly on my strewn bed,
Nor my Sixties compilations.
These were the lonely friends of a wretched, dusty world
Among them I found myself happily listening to the tales they told.

So I would cradle the lost or hopeless old pals which
Would gravitate to me and murmur of their past lives
Some with truths, most with lies.
For no little bear could bear their secret
No matter how kindly they were given away.
Only experience could teach It:
The feeling of being so openly discarded
By those you loved and whom you are scarred.

This world is our oyster, a place built on lovely dreams
Of perfection. But when you hear their sorrows and woes
Told of their friends, not their foes,
And you listen to the collector herself
Who saved your ‘bun bun’ and teddy and plastic men,
And you’re told of the solitude up there on the shelf…
Maybe then you’ll start to see what we shadows do:
That there’s a space reserved in loneliness for all.
Including you.