Refugee collection.

You were dropped off on a
charity shop door step in a
black bin bag addressed to
the refuse collectors;
apparently left at that hovel
of benevolence by mistake.

Inside with you was the waste
of your mother, whore, user,
who appeared old enough to
bleed. Her mind must have
been full of fixes as her
details were amongst the
grease and daub of a hurried
delivery; discarded teenage clothing,
burned and busted cans, bloodied
wipes of bits, and empty bottles of
everyday tablets obviously stolen
too quickly from the pill facility
a street away.

The charity shop kept you until the
right price was offered, and you
were handed over with a machine
turned wooden carving, a faulty
clock restarted and a water colour print.
Raised as a stranger to the world
you were thrown from, and fallen
on recycled fields.