Bin bags galore, lined up drunkenly spewing

the whiff of loaded down hoarding,

a symptom of the black I have been touching,

holding close, I want

to let go.

No council name or number

blazed across the thin plastic coating,

an advertising sign

coated in the decay of years

that the item inside has been lost

but holding ground, a black hole swallow

and burp now tied together with string,

a promise in the knot that this is the last time

I hold such antique thoughts and treasures

in my hands, I let them go and the house

loses pound after pound after pound.

Ian D. Hall 2018