You turn up
Like a long-dead spy
From the grave
Whenever
People want privacy

You turn up
Covered in ear wax
With spit all over your face
And grubby fingernails

Standing on the steps
To the art school
Like a grinning paederast
Hoping for a grope

You turn up
With a dark air about you
Appearing from a hidden corner
A lurker
Worried about discovery
Knowing how to
Hide your face
In your crumbling debris

You darken the morning
Of those who see you
As they wonder
How you turned up
At exactly the wrong moment