At the Creative Writing Group a week or so ago, Beryl led a workshop on the plight of the homeless, starting with a word association exercise to try to get our heads round the problem. We each then tried to encapsulate it in a short prose piece or a poem. If I didn’t quite hit the sympathetic note I was aiming for, mea culpa.
You wouldn’t believe that I had a good job.
I was in with the in crowd, but I was a knob.
Now I’m down on my luck and need a few bob.
Yeah, walk right on past me. I’m not your prob.
I drank for England. I smoked dodgy snout.
I’d snort lines of coke. Any laws I would flout.
I pushed it too far and my boss kicked me out.
I was out of control. Now my Life’s up the spout.
My girlfriend, supportive, I pushed her too far.
She coaxed me and pleaded. She was really a star,
but I just got plastered and smashed up the car.
My family said, “That’s it” and that’s where we are.
So, here in my doorway, with blankets for heat,
head down, out of trouble, on a kind copper’s beat,
I’m cold and I’m hungry, so little to eat
and bugger all chance to start a clean sheet.
So, whilst you ignore me, down and out on my luck,
I’m in a quandary for here I am stuck
and you who don’t know me and don’t give a fuck,
you might be surprised just how little it took.