Each weekday morning, ten o’clock,
I open up the glass shop door.
I put the lights on all around They make the items shine once more.
All of our goods are second-hand
And some have seen much better days,
But polish, soap and bright shop lights
Can make them seem like top of range.
We’re volunteers, all of us here
Except the manager, our Sue. It keeps us out of mischief and Gives all us oldies jobs to do. We take a pride in our small shop;
The clothes are pressed, the glasses gleam.
We all know how to use the till
And work as a united team. My wife is glad I’ve got a job. She said I got under her feet. Seems my retirement hit her hard
I went out just to keep her sweet.
(Don’t get me wrong, she worships me . . .
Or just the quicksand I walk on)
I’d like to think that she’ll be sad
And miss me, maybe, when I’m gone.
But now I love my little job Like working with the public, too.
I chat with mothers and their kids Exchanging jokes and points of view.
At lunchtime I walk round the town,
Eat lunch under the chestnut tree,
Then back in for the PM shift And home at five in time for tea.
Our takings fund a charity That gets no money from the state;
A shelter for stray dogs and cats
They need each penny that we make.
So every bag of bric-a-brac Will raise some cash and save some lives.
It’s good to know that our small shop
Will help these creatures to survive. L. Hartgroves, Launceston, Cornwall.