On the fringes of humanity, beyond the realm of decorum and sensibility

As you fixate on typos, malapropisms, and tenses, before guzzling a calzone

They’re shown foraging through mountains of trash

Upon them a radical regression; yearning only to make a splash

Clothed like Little Bo-Peep with tousled hair just doing their thang

This disease does not discriminate: tall or Mini-Me, yin or yang

Their determination as ominous as a basilisk fang 

We think we’re better, but are we, really?

In our suburbs and alleys are growing signs of this sad reality

They are someone’s parent, partner, or dog walker; their actions speak volumes

Older denizens burying their faces looking for bottles, not perfumes

At ten cents a pop, there’s the rub

Rummaging through the abject, handling waste welcome to the hoarder’s club

Serving the community before bedtime, extending the garbo’s job

A large station, Sydney, months back: glimpsed an older bloke hefting a sack chock-full of plastic

Where ‘Santa’ got that mattress bag defies logic

An inner west suburb, a couple of times

Elders hunting through trash as though they were vintage wines

In south Sydney, a senior scouring for bottles at the bins

Surveying the landscape, securing his golden wings

My pa told me to be grateful, your parents will never collect such things

Honour your family and inspire warm feelings

Wouldn’t do deeds that diminish me, he professes

An acquaintance in Canada had the same illness

Not just total strangers either

A family friend’s affliction beats a raging fever

From salvaging used rugs, graduated to hoarding

Tin foil, apple cores, bickie wrappers, broken things are her calling

Waste is absent from her dictionary

The intrepid collector, the polar opposite of stationary

Cleanup time may arrive, with Juniper, her daughter, chucking them

But dear old Tita Nena would rescue her precious subsystem

Scavenging bins and returning with her finds

Nothing’s safe from those bloodshot eyes

Always with the goodies to stack at her Chucky Street home

Bag guy was nothing compared to her zone

House literally bursting with bottles, her room packed to the rafters

A museum of litter and knickknacks a pile gone bonkers

Her late mum was an earlier convert, a curator like Auntie

Hands up! This is the rubbish patrol, everything has a bounty

She hangs out at the Filo shop

Seems so at home, ‘tis now her regular pit stop

Brings them cheap rejected veggies which were scored for free

Lucky that third-class produce ain’t for me

Owner Tulip’s got creases on her forehead

Said she should see a doctor and have that thing checked

Tita keeps on meddling, demands that they should be sliced this way

The kitchen crew has surrendered, troubled that she’ll forever have the last say 

Tulip asked for the daughter’s number

Told her I didn’t have it leaving her to wonder

She’s given the owner a real headache

Confessed to me that she’s gassed and thinking of hatching an escape

With Aunt’s two trolleys and her bad back

Even a savant may not exorcise her subluxation attack!

Trolley pushing gives her joy and peace, an iota of control against Tito Elmo, her abusive ex

Tall, dark, and never mind, that dude was only trouble, made her feel vexed

He said he was five foot eleven

When asked why he didn’t join the PBA, told me you should be at least six flat to make the dozen

Hailing from the countryside, he never spoke about his family

In Sydney, started work at 4am lost his hair like a mummy

He was into fishing and gambled his earnings away

Flashed his Citibank card, with a toothless smile, trying to hide the decay

He always wanted to be on ‘the road less travelled’

Went with a telco that nobody wanted

I called them a few times

Tito said hello very softly, like meek flies

I immediately hung up, which led to obscenities

He fancies himself a handyman but his work is a joke and causes maladies

Auntie Nena asked me if I called

Lied that I didn’t, said her hubby was seeing red; I almost cackled

The trolley practice has since been adopted in her area

Nena was the originator, the commander with the brilliant idea

Mother’s Day, I penned her a long poem

Her three kids were impressed my verses looked like a tome

A drifter with no time for chores

Rarely washes their clothes or sweeps the floors

Been ages since she last cooked, the fridge hasn’t been sorted

She recycled her laundry water, the dandelions neglected

She’s such a roamer can never sit still

Sydney’s her oyster exploring is a must to fit the bill

She heads to the RSL Club with mates and dances the flamenco

Heard she was graceful and swayed like a pro

The friendly atheist couple always gives her a lift

Told me they returned past midnight they’re not that swift

Each day, Auntie devours her favourite, Indonesian instant noodles

Her teeth have disappeared lost poodles

She preaches against drinking cola and coffee

Bad for your pearly whites keep you awake at night like the mad doll, Chucky

A self-styled doctor, she solves your maladies

Again, just like her late mum, a supposed subverter of tragedies

She trusts no dentists or doctors

Even with ill health, she won’t give in like meek donors

She once had a pet rabbit ate all the lettuce and carrots

Loved that hare so much, too bad it wasn’t in the tarots

Buys the same products, hates trying new things

Her fridge is filled with mango ice blocks, pineapple juice, and Aldi clippings

Previously a functionary: was tidy and well-groomed and has remained kind

Always the same questions: your age, height; she’s left her sharpness behind

Thoughtful and very giving, her family forever in her mind

Protects her brood, guards their secrets

Her eldest returned, their abode now spotless yet Auntie made no banquets

The ‘heiress’ had been gone for three months, no note for her mum

Aunt is penniless while June is off to the Taj Mahal she’s numb

Flawed me could never do that to my parents

Felt bad for Tita wished I could realign the heavens

Hope tomorrow would bring better news I’d erase her burdens.