Bric-a-brac, shoes, and clothing,
Dishes, magazines, and more;
The unwanted things you’re loathing,
Even rags upon the floor.
Charities leave bags to fill,
Placing them beside your gate,
But there they sit, quite damp and still,
Rotting while they wait.
"We cannot take this item here,"
"We don’t want those," they say.
Yet the needy, it is clear,
Did not choose to live this way.
"I only want what brings in gold,
Not things of certain kinds—
Like lamps that look a bit too old,
Or ornaments one finds."
So what is the purpose of my part?
Am I here to help the poor?
Or do I have a greedy heart,
Seeking only more?
"Just take your used and weary things
And toss them in the bin."
Then we wonder why the country stings
From the slump we’re living in.
© William Sinclair Manson 2025
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