Going to the Tip

I'm going to the tip.

But not right now, it's something I need to work up to.
Garages, sheds, cupboards too, spring clean medicine for the middle of June.
Special piles by the side door: definite, for charity and the note quite sure.

Slack-arsed boxes: a Russian Roulette to get to the boot.
Posh plastic bags, the ones that get specially folded.
Strong handles, show off brands: Waitrose, Boots and Debenhams.

Overflowing, crammed in, the need to make the most of the free public service.
A queue of course. A herd of blokes in overheating cars.
Parked up: miles from the recyclables.

I go with the bags first. Then the arse-less boxes. 
Hands underneath.
Solid start.
A lift, a jerk, the Atlas stones of junk deposited.

Distracted by the skips. 
Other people's rubbish so much better than your own.
£100 fine for extraction - they should pay me!

Back home. Lighter. Satisfied.
Eyes tuned for more food for the ever hungry tip monster.