Robinson Crusoe’s Bank Holiday Monday

After tethering the goats,
and drawing up a new
rotation plan for the sabbath,
I will go over

to buy a brand-new sofa in
fresh white leatherette,
which is a bargain, and will match
my patchwork of sand.

Thank the Lord for Sales!
They liven up an otherwise
dismal existence, plying my
needle beneath threadbare trees,

mulching prayers, and sifting
the sea for free samples of fish.
I have a grand collection
of kippers. But a queue,

let’s face it, is all cockles,
a place in which to count spooks
while testing the mattresses
for strength, and waiting

balefully for a customer adviser,
someone to hustle. To go
behind the palms, and emerge
with a promise to pay

in fifteen years, and 0% credit.
This is what holidays were
bred for. A titter of kitchens,
triple-bunking, unusual ferns,

and, best of all, the sofas.
Three-piece, four-piece, pieces
which turn the corner and promise
the last art of conversation.

Terra firma. Tradition. How
else to survive the hurly, the months
on my knees? The Lord obliges.
Everything must go on.

From the book Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday