Bag

 Bag

 

That brown paper bag

tossed off street side,

late of leftover lunches

looks like a dog sitting on its haunches.

What’s that? Its back legs.

It’d jump up and beg

for something in your hands

if it wasn’t a sack with handles.

But it’s not vanishing,

like Hopkirk - when Randall

tells him to hop it, buzz off, take a hike

or when that Tory git said

get on your bike -

was it Tebbit or Lamont?

Well, bike is it? I’ll give you bike:

You probably don’t have one

and wonder why

wine stains don’t vanish

when you apply something magic,

patented, guaranteed to cure,

more a helper than an evil doer,

she pressed her iron

to the armpit - and wrinkles her nose

in disgust at the smell of labour -

it smacks of common sense

you’re sat on a fence that’s walking away.

Do that dog a favour,

before it’s blowing in the wind

to the sound of a Kevin Spacey voiceover -

look - she’s all moist,

dabs the liquid from her eye

with a Kleenex she just licked

then, with a rueful flick

of the wrist is rid of it.

Bomb the bastards someone said,

maybe Kenny Everett

maybe Brother Lee Love

and do it in the best possible taste,

the dirty work, that is.

Don’t make me laugh, nuclear waste?

That brown paper bag looks like a dog.

If you throw him a stick.

He will not fetch it.