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    One True Thing
    One True Thing
    One True Thing
    Ebook76 pages43 minutes

    One True Thing

    By Phil McNulty

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    About this ebook

    'One True Thing' is a collection of poems characterised by social realism. They attempt to 'say it as it is'. Each offers 'one true thing'. They are generally reflective rather than 'performance' in nature.The author has had numerous pieces of poetry and prose published in books, magazines, anthologies, newspapers and pamphlets and has won competition prizes in both areas. His work has been performed at The Unity and Everyman Theatres in Liverpool, at the Royal Court in London and, regularly, on BBC Radio.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherSeaQuake Books
    Release dateAug 16, 2015
    ISBN9781311560834
    One True Thing

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      Book preview

      One True Thing - Phil McNulty

      ONE TRUE THING

      by

      Phil McNulty

      ONE TRUE THING

      Second Edition

      Published by SeaQuake Books

      Copyright 2015. Phil McNulty

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      ISBN 978 1311 560 834

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase or download an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favourite ebook retailer and purchase or download your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      Publisher contact: cqec.research@gmail.com

      An inconvenient ending

      The train wasn't moving

      and a voice on the tannoy said,

      ‘Is there a doctor?’

      And I looked out of the door.

      There was an old man on the floor,

      on his own, the guard standing way back

      and no-one was moving.

      So I got off, walked up a couple of carriages and another guy was there.

      We looked at the old man.

      Foam around his lips, spit or maybe vomit and he was turning greyish blue.

      So, this guy takes out a handkerchief puts it over his mouth and blows a bit

      and I pushed his chest a bit.

      There was no singer doing ‘Staying alive, Staying alive’

      and that's how he died.

      With two useless strangers and a guard standing way back.

      We got in the carriage, the doors closed and we moved out.

      Leaving him there on the platform.

      Uncovered.

      With folk hurrying past and the guard standing back.

      And I sat down,

      with a train load of people, just wanting to get home at the end of the day,

      and pissed off at the inconvenience.

      A day in the life

      The heating’s off at nine. Landlord says the bills are his not mine.

      So, I’m in bed watching Jeremy Kyle ‘til ten.

      Be-duvetted. Lovely.

      Even then, only get up to use the loo, but I’ve nothing else to do,

      so, most days, I walk to town in the damp and cold

      wearing me old T-shirt, old shirt, old coat- I wear the lot!

      Everything I’ve got, really, apart from Bermuda shorts.

      My face is white, taught, dry-eyes, sunken back into me head.

      Probably should stay in bed, but I’ve got to get out

      and, no doubt, I’ll be back there later.

      Probably about four, waiting for the boiler to fire up at six.

      Down the market I can have a browse,

      chance to wander, mingle with the crowd.

      Sometimes I get to load a van. If it’s cash in hand I’m your man.

      Not today though, water pouring from the awnings, the worst of mornings.

      Nothing happens. Traders all huddled-fingerless-gloves-smoking,

      and stoical-foot-stamping. They like to perform.

      I’ve got to keep warm. On rainy days, can’t dry me clothes.

      I scurry down High Street, head low, hands deep, busses pass.

      I hit the library doors too fast.

      Self-conscious. She looks suspicious, at this overdressed itinerant.

      Yes. Literate, unemployed, itinerant.

      A tolerant smile, I head for the reading room. The papers are gone.

      I pick randomly- Thatcher’s biography, The World at War.

      Stare back at the floor.

      Squeeze into the window seat, pull up my feet

      from the draught playing on the plate glass,

      read about the past and

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