[POEM] Charity at 11 by Morad Moazami

Charity at 11

by Morad Moazami

Fog-swamped Oxford colored

in smog, Little Clarendon a film noir;

I put a coat over my coat and

walk down to death row of

thin duvets, on the lookout

for a woolly-bear to offer the old coat

shedding goose down-fill

to goad on fate, in return.

This is new: the topsy-turvy,

the head that whirls

instead of aches, the breaths

out of step; it’s still so

early in the night, at least

in any other country, but even the

beggars here are fast

asleep, and it’s quiet, the

old coat heavy, the yellow dark.

Should I wake them

for a coat? Whisper, and

no response; move on.

An hour’s walk. His friends have

coats. He, just a tattered blue

hoodie, college insignia mocking

him. I mock him more, offering my

tattered charity.

Still the topsy-turvy, the head

that whirls instead of aches, the

breaths out of step, and it’s still

so early in the night.

The city is as liver-eyed

as before; my body still

a casket in a rattletrap

hearse, just without

the dandruff at its

tail, and distracted by

the possibility that I might

have left him extras

in the coat’s five pockets.

Morad is a writer and scholar with a DPhil in Asian and Middle Eastern Studies from Oxford. He is the author of two novels, The Least of Beings (2018) and Skunk Hour (2025). His work spans fiction, poetry, and cultural criticism, though he most prefers writing poetry and fiction.

Socials: @aghamorad