On Charlie

I miss Charlie. Sometimes I attend city hospitals for treatment, when I’ve seen Charlie, sitting on the pavement with her crossword puzzle, passing the day. I saw her tent once, pitched in St. Peter’s grounds, because homeless shelters are not felt safe for women.

     Charlie, a polite, well presented young woman, says the city is better for her than the country town. It keeps her away from bad company; she’s here to put her life together again.

     I haven’t seen her lately. Nor the man I greeted on Bourke Street, who has such terribly swollen, shoeless, blue-purple feet. The city is closing in. Some things happened. Boarding houses shut, for why? Did the land become too valuable, or were they just such unsound premises? Facilities fenced out at night, due to fights over limited resources. Flinders Street Station featured the police, who as in the times of the English Poor Law, moved people on. A better place to sleep, crowded, lighted, food and water nearby? Better than a dark lonely alley?

     I’d miss Charlie less if I knew she was in a warm, dry, safe place. I can’t forget her little fingerless gloves, her courteous conversation, her half-finished crossword puzzle.