The barren whitewashed walls won’t talk

in the absence of graffiti;

no scripture scrawled in paint or chalk,

no importunate entreaty

 

saying  meet me at The Nail Bar

on Saturday at half past two –

we’ll promenade the boulevard

like the gentle people do.

 

I’d write messages on buses

with my fingers in the dust

or the carts collecting rubbish

if those services weren’t cut.

 

All the advertising hoardings

are dismantled from their space.

How can lovers do their courting

without a premise to deface?

 

I grieve our loss of common ground

and the theft of collective art.

Conceptual sex has let us down

and my digits find it hard

 

to keep abreast of current text

and a tongue I can’t decipher,

but I’ll perpetuate affect

and become a Second Lifer.