A head of dirty furniture

The for sale sign is in your hedge again

The Friday night pisshead are always in the gardens

Between the only pub in town and the new

Housing estate. Beer bottles on the wall

A broken wing mirror sometimes. The couple opposite

Have their garden gnomes constantly stolen, they

Always turn up in someone else’s wheelie bin

Or in a tree, drowning in a pond, or he holds tightly

To the bottom of the ladder as she climbs to retrieve

Two from the conservatory roof.

The for sale sign is being hammered in again

By Lizzy from the estate agents

Who doesn’t knock and say hi anymore

She just comes and then she goes.

It’s 9 am. Breakfast is cleared away.

It’s market day on Thursday.