The rest home

I like the woodshed,
a smell of wet putty
and dead paint,
they wheel me out
for a function
and it blows the cobwebs off me
although I no longer care.

Once I was the cream of the crop
and now,
just yesterdays fare.

It seems the seams have come away,
afraid now that I’m frayed,
the dog end of material upon
which the footlights strayed.

just like Bentham at UCL
on show I go again
although not in a cabinet
it feels to me the same.

I remember
something sometimes
then the clock chimes to remind me
there’s not much point in doing so
back on show I go
life goes on.

© 2016, John Smallshaw.