Bedshit

Ten by ten,
a pox on this box.
Accommodated but subjugated.
Subjected daily to rants,
pants stolen
from washing lines,
stifling.
I'm rifling through the knife drawer
There's someone banging
on the front door,
scoring no doubt.
Keeping my nose out
of the shouting
Clouting people isn't my style
Smiling despite being riled
Neighbour blowing a gasket
Rats crept in through holes
in thin walls
ate the contents of his wicker rubbish basket,
I ask you,
is this right?
Conditions equivalent to rendition,
kidnapped by night
by no names,
thrown in a cell
with only ourselves to blame
Housing benefit paid
but afraid to complain.
A schism.
Legitimate worries about black mould
in children's cold bedrooms,
complaints taken,
then mistaken,
for racism.