Compost Letter

The communal bin steams when I lift the lid:
tea bags, onion skins, a soft brown heat
that has been working without witnesses.

I turn it with the borrowed fork.
Orange peel gives way. Coffee grounds.
Then paper, furred at the edges,
coming up in strips.

PLEASE, one strip says.

Another: seven days.

The third has lost its verb.

From the flat below, the curtains are gone.
The balcony holds a plastic chair
facing the wall, as if it has been told
to wait there until further notice.

I keep turning. The instruction leaflet—
green waste welcome—lies split beneath
the leaves and notices.

There is a name in blue ink.
Not enough of it to call across the yard.
There is a phone number with the last two digits
eaten clean away.

Then, beneath a rind of avocado,
my own handwriting:

I am upstairs if you need—

The rest has gone black with rain.

I remember the note on my kitchen counter,
the cup placed on top of it,
the ordinary faith that tomorrow
would remain where I had left it.

By afternoon, a man with a new key
is measuring the rooms below.
I fold the surviving words into the heap
and cover them with leaves.

For weeks the bin gives off warmth.