Alloted Space

Black fish nets drape where canes are lashed,
discarded tights suggest worn through,
all day is worked to sunset strip,
for irrigation butt is filled,
no handcuffs, yet old bedstead, notched,
silk sheets, down pillows, dreams long gone,
the knots and ties and metal rings
near leather thongs and magazines.
Compost-making pages featured last,
with promises of bone meal soon.
To puff the pipe, though do not smoke,
while listen battered wireless hum,
not radio. I want no drink,
here no release, though thermos cup
reminds of how it used to be.
I note the greenfly over there,
aware no borders weed seeds care;
the customs post, a long pea row,
where tax free excess rhubarb share.
Allotment place, working men's club,
some clubfoot there, but growth is good,
and unexpected bloom appears.