I
am not Charlie so my name means nothing.
I can never hope, in the current climate,
to become that kind of cause célèbre.
A buzz of curiosity is all the notice I attract
through a series of whispered exchanges;
there is early morning drama, something to see:
the shrugging of a pair of sleepy shoulders;
I can never hope, in the current climate,
to become that kind of cause célèbre.
A buzz of curiosity is all the notice I attract
through a series of whispered exchanges;
there is early morning drama, something to see:
the shrugging of a pair of sleepy shoulders;
a question asked by a pair of arched eyebrows,
answered
by the down-turned corners of a mouth,
the slow and solemn shaking of a head.
Last
night I made my bed, as, lately, I’ve been forced
to
by curling up tight against the darkness:
I brought my knees up high, so, used the crook
I brought my knees up high, so, used the crook
of
my arm to make a kind of cushion for my head.
Now, well into June, this sharp cold is unseasonal.
Still, in summer, most people do not think of us.
Only afterwards it strikes them:
Now, well into June, this sharp cold is unseasonal.
Still, in summer, most people do not think of us.
Only afterwards it strikes them:
'Oh,
yes,’ they say, ‘I think I saw him.
In
the underpass, going into town?’
Now,
in the morning, they recollect some detail
that
betrays how they knew all the time.
‘He
didn’t have a dog like some of them do.’
‘His
sleeping bag, wasn’t it blue?’
‘I
saw him there a week ago, just before dark.’
‘He
wore jeans and his eyes were like hollows.’
But
I am not Charlie and, if you knew my name,
I
am afraid it would mean not much to you.
Abigail Wyatt, 11th June, 2015
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