Rough Sleeper OR A Thousand Cuts a Day and Counting

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

[Update December 22, 1918: Almost 600 homeless people died in England and Wales last year, according to official figures only recently published for the first time. The figure represents a rise of 24% over five years, according to the Office for National Statistics; these are the first official estimates of the number of deaths of homeless people, which show 84% of those who died were men.]

It is snowing here in London today. In winter especially, but all year round, yoo, let us remember the homeless and do what we can for them; a little, really can go a long way.

In the current economic climate, more and more people are faced with the prospect of having their home repossessed so…there but for good fortune go you or I ...

Incidentally, this poem was written in 1990. As I look around at the homeless on the streets of London, it does not seem to me that anywhere near as much has changed as was promised by the politicians in those far-off days ...

There are, of course, 'career' beggars on the streets, but a discerning eye can usually tell who is genuine and who isn't. We all make mistakes, though. Here in London, I well recall a day I gave money to a street beggar only to spot him get into an impressive-looking car (parked several streets away) a few hours later and drive off! A former 'beggar' I met in a pub once confided that begging financed his drinking and drug addictions for years until he eventually got help to turn his life around.

So ... when in any doubt...don't. [There are other ways to support homeless and other deserving charities online.] Yet, there but for ... could be you or me.

ROUGH SLEEPER or A THOUSAND CUTS A DAY, AND COUNTING

‘Hungry – Homeless - No dole’

says a card beside a begging bowl

outside a busy supermarket;

red-rimmed eyes trying to read

the pavement for signs

of homeless-friendly footsteps

worth a pleading glance

for even half a chance of a cuppa

in some cosy café

A few coins here, a few coins there,

the odd note, a few euros,

or cents, whatever; just enough

to keep a scarecrow in bird seed,

and…

Oh, but what the heck…?

Chatty conversation, hacking

at the neck

Copyright R. N. Taber 2000; 2018

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears under the title 'Ritual Slaughter' in my first collection, Love And Human Remains by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2001]