Junkman The world is piled at my doorstep: see how high it’s grown. I see beauty discarded and I want to take it home. People call me “the Junkman” but I know your needs. Someday, you’ll want what you’ve thrown away, and you’ll come running to me. I’ve got stacks of tomorrows, piled high as clouds: dreams people threw away ‘cause they dare not speak aloud. So before you call me “Junkman,” think what you’ve hidden away. The things you think you left behind, you might be needing some day. For who can say what is precious, and what only looks like gold? There are things we treasure that we can never hold. I keep my dreams in boxes, neatly stacked in rows. My treasures are all hidden for only you to know. So please don’t call me “Junkman:” in things, I see imagery. I’d be happy with just one possession if you belonged to me.