Decomposition

When we arrived,
we painted the wall
– as if shabby could turn glossy
with an oiled curlicue or two.

Now, there’s rubbish
piling up behind railings
that are either keeping it out
or holding us in.

The compost crate
is breaking down
faster than its contents.
At night, we piss on the pile,
hoping to produce a swift alchemy
from the rags of leaves and rotting logs.

But it’s a waste of time
– nothing grows here.
Even the plants are stencilled.

Funny how a place can inhabit your bones.

If we leave, will the scenery
collapse in on itself
until the stage is blank again,
waiting for the next instalment
to raise it from the dust?