Carole Bromley
The Old Clothes Woman
She called once a month at the back.
My mother would ask her in,
get all excited, run upstairs
for bundles of clothes
that weren’t old at all,
not even worn.
She’d examine them
like the man in the pawn shop.
It was my first lesson in haggling:
I could tell by her eyes
if she really wanted them,
the way she flicked them aside.
In return she’d hand over pyrex,
one dish at a time.
My mum’s ambition was to collect
a complete dinner service.
I thought everyone ate off glass
till I started school.
You took your own plates
but always got someone else’s.
No-one ever wanted mine.
I wished I lived in Johnny Dent’s house
where they spat out plum stones
on a flowered china rim.
Page(s) 54
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