Tuesday, 3 November 2015

The Hardware Store

It is something of a relief to walk into the hardware store. 
Rows of terracotta plant pots, smell of compost, birdseed. 
A watering can doesn’t require any contemplation: 
whatever I might think about it, the can only serves one purpose. 
As does the length of garden hose 
and the packet of jubilee clips. 
It is like reading a Stephen King novel 
after the complete works of Tennyson. 
The bliss of not thinking. Either it does or it doesn’t. 
You can even get away with being dressed like a rustic poet 
who forgot to die in the last century. 
The man behind the counter is used to old-timers in dungarees 
and stained hats having conversations with themselves. 
Yes, I think that there might be a case for this: 
if you’re feeling down and struggling to cope with it all, 
borrow a hat from a scarecrow 
and spend half an hour in the hardware store. 
They’re bound to have exactly what you need.

Especially if you don’t know just what that thing might be.

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