K: This Place

The door is shut.
I arrived before expected, singular
In this place I did not imagine.
Perhaps, I think for a moment, this place is ordinary:
Four windows and a door, shut
and I do not have a key.
Above me, withered rose, ivy, understands what has been
past forgotten, and I shudder to think
I'm sinking
and wondering what words I could write
to describe this unused memory.
Looking through the window
(because I do not have a key)
the kitchen tap drips, twice,
dribbles into a mossy drain.

Stumble round to the back
Overgrown sand leaves a film on my new black shoes.
There is a beetle sunning itself on a leaf.
Possibly there is a sense of life,
but for now I can only feel dust,
as if this place were in its grave already
and trying to get out.
I don't dare enter the shed: there is a spider in the window.

A truck screeches;
I am not a part of this disguised thought.

A sanctuary of emotion,
it hides what little vivality was once here.
I imagine a sunhat -from past picnics-
hidden in the grass
now grown tall and tangled with mouse-nests.

Tomorrow I will return again
and I will not have a key.
How long, whispers the house, how long?
The door is shut.
I would not have it any other way.