A Job To Do

Ted, although
I’m slightly nervous
that the sight of you might
actually give children a fright,
there is a job to do.

Other Teds are doing it
so I thought you should too.

All that’s required
is that you stand in a window
and look out.

Hopefully  you’ll bring a smidgen of cheer
to any kids who spot you;
though you’re not as cute as you once were,
that’s true;

over the many years
your fur has disappeared
and all the knowledge you’ve acquired,
all those childhood secrets you were told
that you hold deep within your mute being,
must now hang heavy inside you.

I’m surprised you’re not weighed down
by such a burden.

Maybe you are.

Remember when I used to whisper in your ear,
but always loud enough for Mum to hear,
‘We hate her, don’t we Ted’
if she ever got cross or told me off?

And how, sometimes,
I would throw you across the room.

I accept, now,
that was no way to treat a bear.

And I know, my dear friend,
I’ve left you
at the bottom of a drawer for far too long
before dragging you out of confinement
at this time of dread and fear.

But people are dying, Ted.
Some people are dead.

It’s grim, Ted.
It’s tough.

So I’ll just prop you up on the sill, old pal,
and let you do your stuff.