glad the mirror’s close.

When I’m giving you that gift
— box in hand — nicely wrapped
Extending it towards you
And you take just a second or two
Longer than I expected you
To reach for it

“These are gifts for you,”
You say and point at the
Far end of the back yard
Where a pile of things
Is stacked
Against the white brick wall.

It includes,
But is not limited to,
A 1¼-inch pipe, about five feet long,
Once white, now the paint almost completely
Peeled off.
King size spring mattress, folded in two,
Likely to be broken,
Never to be unfolded again,
Mouldy, thick with black gunk.

Is that really a gift?
Are you…?
I wouldn’t put it past you, but still.
A shudder and I swallow.

Then books, lots of them,
Strewn around, dumped,
A happy bunch: they know
They’re no longer needed.
A kid’s bike, minus the wheels.
Deckchair, aluminium frame,
Fabric ripped, all across.
Milk bottles unopened, labels faded,
Might have been green before.
A pair of flip-flops — you loved
Running around in flip-flops.
An empty bin, blue.
A bathroom mirror, reflecting the clouds. Also.

“Most of this will look like junk to you.
But perhaps you’ll find a use for some of them.”