Eyesore

The Hoarder

In amongst the muck and mire,
stashed against an old spare tire,
pressed against the garden gates
the hoarder's loot accumulates.

A shorted lamp by the front door,
bulging bags upon the floor,
an old green hose, a plastic rose,
what's in that trunk do you suppose?

Piles of boxes, stacks of bins,
a tattered quilt, some swimming fins,
busted tables, broken chairs,
dirty brushes full of hairs.

Stacks of phone books all a-teeter,
plastic swats to squish a 'skeeter,
buckets full of nuts and bolts,
electric toys in need of volts.

Heaps of paper, mounds of trash,
window panes a stone did smash,
rusty tools and scratched-up glasses,
nothing to his eye surpasses.


Hoarder's house, New Milford, Connecticut.