He leaves the office
clutching his P45
the rain tumbles down
and the darkness grows behind his eyes

His house is empty
except for the stacks of missed mortgage payments
and the note from his wife.
And the darkness growing behind his eyes

he returns from the job centre
to find his things in black binbags
and the locks have been changed
all while the darkness grows behind his eyes

onto the never-ending road he goes
until his shoes fall apart
and his socks become threadbare
all while the darkness grows behind his eyes

the ground is cold
the rocks dig into him
and his stomach screams
all while the darkness grows behind his eyes

the smell of roast dinners, fry-ups, sushi,
falafel, chow mein, jalfrezi, kebabs, fried chicken, burgers,
fill his nose while his stomach gets emptier,
all while the darkness grows behind his eyes

spare some change, he says,
silence answers him or mumbled apologies or
people crossing the street
all while the darkness grows behind his eyes

he’s a drunk, they say
he’s a junkie, they say. This is is all his fault, they say
but he doesn’t want to drink or shoot up, it’s just so cold at night
and it keeps away the darkness behind his eyes

But the darkness always returns
drilling into his brain
burrowing underneath his skin
he traces the scars on his wrist. Maybe he could push deeper.
Who cares about another dead tramp?

Instead he heads into a public bathroom,
and locks eyes with a woman with greasy hair and a
grey tracksuit that hides a map of scars and bruises on her body,
in her pocket is a roll of toilet paper, for it is that time of the month again

he goes into an encampment
surrounded by the LGBTQ+ youth
banished for only
being themselves

and the Arabs, Eritreans, Somalians, Ukranians, Iraqis
Afghanis, Iranians, El Salvadoreans, Mexicans, Turkish,
all reaching out for help,
all screaming into the void

as are the children without parents
running away for a better life
onto streets that are paved with chewing gum and grease
not gold

he’s part of a community now
hundreds of thousands just like him
all across England
yet he’s never felt more alone

just another statistic, that’s all he is
a pawn for the politicians to push when they want votes,
but everyday remains the same
keep your coins, he says, he wants change.

Sleep finally comes
but he’s awoken by a kick to the face,
his sleeping bag being wrestled away
at least it’s getting warmer

the cold is being cast away
the heat is burning
he’s been set on fire
but tomorrow will be better

But tomorrow never comes
only empty promises and lies
he wraps the newspapers around himself
the headlines read: “Homelessness is a lifestyle choice.”

*

Dedicated to a certain politician who dismissed homelessness as a lifestyle choice. 

I volunteer for the excellent Refugee Community Kitchen charity who cook free, nutritious meals for the homeless of London. This year we served over 26,000 meals. If you are able to donate or volunteer then please get in touch.