Blue Peter

I have decided I ought to refurbish
my house so I've collected decor
from skips, ripped binbags and rubbish
dumps. A pot of half-eaten coleslaw

sits on my mantlepiece as pot pourri.
Coathanger mobiles become chandeliers,
whilst a solitary foil tray, bronzed in Tandoori,
adorns my dining table like a souvenir

conversation piece brought back from Delhi
or Nairobi or Brunei. To give the kitchen
a breezy feel I've hung long strips of tagliatelle
as a partition from the lounge. Slices of gherkin,

picked from the bin outside Burger King,
have been glued in constellation
shapes to the kid's bedroom ceiling:
orion and the plough. If negotiations

go well, the children could stay
round on weekends to help me spruce
the place up. Instead of gravel, we could lay
a garden path with the forty packs of cous-cous

I found, unwanted, in a skip behind Tesco.
I'll build them a climbing frame from scaffolding,
table tops and a crooked garden hoe.
And rope swings from the discarded webbing

that was thrown out in to the street
behind Knitters and Sewers World.
I've taken in the stray that ran under my feet
at the recycling depot. He is curled

up on the sofa I forged from milk crates
and mattresses. I'm naming him Cromwell
for the time being unless the children hate
it. Our old cat was called Meribel

after the ski resort that their mum
took them to. An official letter fell
through my door addressing me as Peter Black;
abridged, single-barrel. I found some chewing gum
to pin the envelope up next to the doorbell
like a flag, or a badge or a plaque.