Outhouse

I closed the gate and left the building
that was, top to bottom, painted white.

I stepped out onto the construction site
where the old brick wall extends into new
where crumbled rock and cement nuggets
Are strewn across the marbled floors.

A veneer of white dust, over everything.
The roots of trees on the compound
fight to make their way through,
cracking the tiles and bursting from
unexpected places.

A rusty gate is the only living remnant,
a thoughtful presence on the property
that stands as a feeble barrier
to those who pass, presenting
a psychological impediment.