Storage Unit

I’ve placed my life inside a room,
it’s safe behind a padlocked door.
I purchased four metres by two,
it sits in the dark, up on the third floor.

A mountain bike with ten gears,
a mattress with one hundred springs.
There’s a certificate for effort,
tubs of shrapnel, old colouring in,
Japanese paper dolls, my portfolio,
a red dial-up phone nobody rings.

I could chuck my lot but can’t let go,
so I keep it dry for a rainy day.
I could go and live my life,
the life that’s fifty miles away.

Paul Stephenson

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Paul Stephenson would be pleased to hear them.