Poetic Post #3
Happy Tuesday, everyone! And welcome to today’s Poetic Post.
It would have been handy (pun obviously intended) for 31st October to fall on a Tuesday this year, as today’s poem is very much Halloween themed – so if you’ve already moved on and have Christmas in your sights, forgive me for lingering on Spooky Season just a little longer.
(By the way, you can read about the context for these bonkers poems here.)
Today’s poem was originally two separate ones – The Second Hand Shop and The Shop Next to the Second Hand Shop – which I’d hoped would appear either side of a page-turn in an illustrated collection of my poems. Ha! The arrogance!
Luckily for you, I’ve since been humbled, so I’m cognisant that to stretch out Halloween for two more weeks and release these poems as consecutive posts would be simply unacceptable. Thus, having tweaked a verse or two, I’ve combined them into one.
So…happy reading!
The Second Hand Shop
I was walking through town
but decided to stop,
when I spotted a sign for
The Second Hand Shop.
So I headed inside and I asked
“What d’you sell?”
and the staff member, frowning,
said, “Why, can’t you tell?”
“We’re a second hand shop,
like it says on the door.
Can I take it we’ve not had
your custom before?”
“No, you haven’t,” I said.
“So, the thing that you stock
is the longest of hands that
one finds on a clock?”
But she just shook her head.
“Not a soul understands
that the thing that we’re selling
is spare second hands.”
It was then that I actually
glanced round the shop.
And the sight that I saw
caused my breathing to stop….
Resting neatly in rows,
there was hand after hand;
had it not been disgusting,
it would have looked grand.
“We have hands of all ages,
each colour and size,”
the assistant explained,
as she guided my eyes.
“The selection’s quite daunting,
I do understand.
If you have any questions,
I’m always on hand.”
I just stood for a moment,
still frozen with shock.
But a question arose
as I stared at the stock…
“Where on earth do you get them?”
I queasily said,
as the likeliest answer popped
into my head.
“Oh, it’s easy,” she smiled.
“Someone brings them to us –
which is really quite handy!
I think his name’s Gus.
I’ll admit, I am always
a little bemused,
there are so many hands
neither wanted nor used.
But it shows so much kindness
to come and donate
such a personal item.
I think that it’s great.”
“I agree, that is kind,”
I replied, as I took,
from the shelf just above me,
a hand off its hook.
I was keen to get going,
yet still seem polite,
so said, “Sorry – for me,
the price isn’t quite right.”
“Not a problem,” she smiled,
“but a tip, if I may?
Try the shop just next door, Sir –
it’s cheaper. Good day.”
So I went to that shop,
and it was indeed cheap,
as instead of neat rows
there was heap after heap…
…after heap after heap
after heap of old hands:
not a package or box,
and no shelving or stands.
So I said to the man,
“You sell second hands too?”
But he frowned and said,
“That’s what this looks like to you?”
I said, “Sorry, my bad.
so, what is it you sell?”
He said, “Second-hand second hands.
Couldn’t you tell?”
“These are used second-hands
that are wanted no more.
So how many you want, then?
A couple? Three? Four?”
I felt pressured and so
I said, “Just the one, please,”
and to make conversation,
asked, “Where’d you get these?”
He just chuckled, and muttered,
“My secret. Can’t say.”
Then he held out his hand.
“My name’s Gus, by the way.”
So I offered my hand,
but I quickly withdrew
(as it felt like the sensible,
wise thing to do…)
said goodbye to the handy
but very strange man,
then, as fast as my heartbeat,
I swivelled and ran!