Monday Poem: Not For The Squeamish

Phew, busy weekend and full day on Monday, so if pressed for time, fall back on the simple police narrative I always say! Ankle healing well thanks, bruising looks worse than it actually feels now. Thanks for the good wishes and advice.

Some Things Stay With You

Ann Elwys, you gave me scabies.
Three times in one set of seven nights
I arrested you for criminal damage,
for though simple, you were not stupid.
Smash one small window whilst someone’s passing,
sit down, and sooner or later we’d arrive
and rescue you from a November night;
a November night on the street.
Warmish cell, a cup of tea and breakfast
before court let you out again, bound over.
Of course, there were formalities
for you and the arresting officer:
the search, the interview,
fingerprints, photograph,
antecedents, all of which
meant contact, Ann Elwys,
with your clothes, your skin
and searingly, your smell.
Oh, I know, plastic gloves first night,
not too close, good hand-wash after;
but on the third night Central cells were full
so we diverted to Trinity,
didn’t know where stuff was,
no interview room available,
so I did it in the cell, sat next to you
on the thin blue plastic mattress.
I read you back the admission,
you signed, with my pen.
Your facial expression never changed,
Ann Elwys, as if joy or despair
were strangers to you;
not that you talked much either,
but you always did as asked.
Yes, simple was the word then.
I smiled at you, Ann Elwys, vagrant of the parish,
and showed you some kindness;
in my memory I conjure
a faint smile on your face for me
when there was none.
Ann Elwys, you gave me scabies:
I suspect I might be the one person
who has never, ever, forgotten you.