BACK TO POETRY

REMOVALS

Enter the house, First impressions tell
How the garden has gone to ruin, the dead rat
In the hallway, having creeped past the safety doors.
Once abandoned in a hurry, the intimidation
Tactic stands out: a common occurrence today.
Scared out of their home by bully-boy menaces
Who knows why? Not me.
Maybe the anti-social
Lack of concern for their appearance is considered
To be letting the area down.
But anyway, they've fled
In a hurry and the Council have sealed the dwelling
To prevent all but rats from sneaking in.
Now we return to collect on their behalf
Their furniture and belongings not yet moved.
We store it, piece by piece, into wooden coffins,
Two hundred and fifty cubic feet of space
In each: it takes two for this particular job.
The dirt is evident, the squalor yells of
Mistreatment in the cleaning and caring department.
Cheap fittings, bags of rubbish, all to go
Into storage. "Why pay to keep this stored?" we ask
But not to their face; they're our bread and butter.
Wipe the grease from my hand, I stick to everything
I touch, how can I get this out without
Ruining my clothes? No thought for how the family
Of the house live like this. You can't afford
The luxury of believing you are better
Just because you live a cleaner living.
Scattered toys, dolls ripped and soggy, bed-clothes
Litter the rooms without a care; furniture
In disrepair, old, dirty, gross, worthless.
"How can people live like this?" we ask ourselves,
And secretly hope never to be like them.
It can't all be environmental, perhaps it's genetic
To not care about hygiene, cleanliness,
Or the impression you give to others who see you.
Job over, two boxes filled, only the carpets left,
Throw them in the back of the van roughly.
Quickly, get out of here, the strain is breaking
The will of my humanity; I must escape.

Dirty house, dirty people, dirty business.
Dirty job, but guess who had to do it?

 BACK TO POETRY