Fag breaks out the back,

By overflowing bins.

In those stifling, litter strewn

Rat-runs, never seen by the

Nice folk:

The punters.

A well earned breather from

Minimum wage slavery.

No sinecure here.

 

Switchback passages twist and turn.

Darkly labyrinthine.

Over.

Under.

Around.

Fire escapes and staircases

Leprous through oxidization

And peeling paint,

Exposed to the elements

And bird shit, creak

With the tiredness of age.

 

Faceless: the hidden army

Who would revolt.

Who cook your meals.

Change your sordid bed linen.

Empty your bins and

Clean your smears

Off the pan.

 

Around the back, there

Is no smell

Of fresh paint.

Just body odour

And decay.