I Am Not Charlie

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;

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

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:

'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

http://www.eveningnews24.co.uk/news/rough_sleeper_dies_in_norwich_underpass_this_morning_1_4106082

The Nudge Unit

I forgot to pay my car tax.
It isn’t the first time,
but with one thing and another,
well, you know how it is.
The letter they sent me,
well, it looked like any other,
addressed to me, Joe Bloggs.
A polite reminder.

But it slipped my mind again.
Buried under a pile of stuff,
it was out of sight.
You know how it happens.
But then they wrote to me again,
this time, with a big headline,
you couldn’t miss it,
‘Pay your tax or lose your Ford Fiesta.’

And there was a photo of my car,
my old car that I love,
underneath the headline.
Well, as you can imagine,
I kind of took notice.
I mean, that letter talked to me.
Not just anybody. Me.
It was addressed directly to me . . .

So I paid up. Went straight
to the Post Office and paid up.
And I wasn’t sure why.
But I kind of felt uncomfortable
about the letter.
It kind of felt, I don’t know,
intrusive? Weird? I mean,
who took the photo of my car?
When? What was I doing?
I felt a bit uneasy about it.

So I went on driving.
Tax disc all sorted. All alright.
And I put to the back of my mind
that strange letter they sent
with my photo in it.
It was only, well, months later,
that I was in the pub,
and I got chatting to somebody.
They used to work for the DVLA,
that kind of thing.

They said that, in my area,
at the time I forgot to pay my car tax,
the government, I don’t know,
some scientist it was,
did a kind of experiment
with the way they wrote the letters,
trying to get us to pay up.
Especially people like me who,
well, forgot more than once.

The person I was speaking to,
said they’re called the ‘Nudge Unit.’
You know, they kind of
give you a nudge
if you don’t pay things.
Saves the government millions.
Apparently, they text people who
don’t pay court fines.
Works better than a letter . . .
Well, it worked on me.
I’m not breaking the law now . . .

© Cath Davies 2015

Cath Davies lives and writes in North Wales. She has worked in social care for many years. Currently, she is currently studying creative writing at degree level at the Open College of the Arts where she has been a student since 2008.

Poor Tom’s A-cold

Where do you sleep at night?I asked him.

He looked so tired. With his

Blond beard, blue eyes (good teeth),

He could have been a young crusader

In his stony niche,

Huddled in a sleeping bag cloak.

His boots were in good shape.

In the Roodee car park mostly, he said

It’s drier under the cars.

What happened to you, Tom?

He talks of a break-up with his girlfriend,

Loss of his job and flat.

I had a car once, he tells me.

Four months sanction means

He will be living rough through the bitter winter months.

“Regrettably there are reduced places for the homeless due to cuts.”

I fetch him a pastry from the Tesco Express.

Come Christmas though, the Hospice will give me a hot meal,

And a shower; I do want my dignity.

I told him, I’ll come back.

But he was gone, moved on

By the police with new instructions:

“No homeless to be seen in the city centre.”

We are proud of our historical city, and

Its many tourist attractions:

Our wonderful heritage.

Lisa Rossetti

May 2015

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