I headed downstairs today with a bin bag of rubbish. There are eight large,blue bins outside the apartment block for residents to use. As I opened the lid to throw the bag in I nearly jumped out of my less-than-pale skin at the sight that greeted me. There, looking dazed, confused and on the brink of terror was a dishevelled man in his late twenties. He had stirred from his slumbers as I lifted the lid and was startled at this unexpected stranger. Neither he nor I was probably as shocked as the man who discovered a large, hairy, very-much-alive tarantula in his post this week, however, I mumbled a hasty apology, noted that he spoke no English, and put my bag of rubbish in the next bin.

Liverpool, like most major cities, has its fair share of people who call no place home but I was struck again by how we, as a society, can allow human beings to be cast aside in refuse bins in the same way as plastic pots and potato peelings.

I have learned that engaging with the homeless in some way is never dull. I asked one to come and stay in my spare room one night a few months ago and was probably not overly surprised to discover specks of blood that had sprayed all over the bathroom the next day, the result of the needle entering the vein.

It can, however, be extremely satisfying to interact with those who are often very intelligent and can share incredible pearls that are far more valuable than the supposed wisdom of us who have a roof over our head. What about the guy who sleeps on Fenwick Street who told a friend and I that he had given money to ex footballer, John Barnes, so that the latter could pay for his parking space as he arrived to do an interview on Liverpool FC TV? Whether this is true or not I don’t know, but it was an entertaining story.

At a time when we are rightly shocked by a worsening Syrian refugee crisis, the challenge for us is to consider the refugees within our own towns and cities. Should they really be disgarded and disregarded as the plastic pots and potato peelings of our society? I think not.

Here’s a poem I wrote while looking out of a café window one day:

There’s a cigarette butt on the pavement outside. Why?

There’s a greasy chip paper in the road outside. Why?

There’s Dalmatian chewy on the flags outside. Why?

There’s a puddle of vomit in the street outside. Why?

And a crumpled man asleep on the cold. Why?

 

There are cigarette butts littering the pavement of my brain,

And greasy chip papers adorn my greasy mind,

Dalmatian chewy sticks to my soul’s flags,

And puddles of vomit flow on my streets within.

Meanwhile a crumpled man sneaks in and awakens my heart.

©Cre8ivation