
Nothing
There are forty of us in my class,
a symphony of sniffing and snots
dragging themselves up nostrils,
making me feel like vomiting
on the boy in front of me.
I left school with no qualifications
just turned fifteen,
hitting the great big world
with absolutely nothing.
I never went to Lourdes
on those bus trips organised by the Parish,
paying a Brother of the Church or Legion of Mary.
I didn’t have a crutch or continuous cough,
louder than the priest’s sermon.
I never brought home a bottle of holy water
in a plastic vase of ‘Our Lady’
which hid behind the ‘Gazette’ calendar.
I never went,
avoiding the 24-hour bus trip
Didn’t see any miracles.
Crutches being thrown away.
The blind seeing again.
I didn’t go. Never set one foot near.
I did wave off the Lourdes bus
with a feeling of being saved.
Not In
Mam told me to say, ‘Me Mam’s not in.’
Even though she is behind our door
wearing a very serious face.
The Provident Man knows she is there,
shutting his heavy book, giving one long sigh
before his eyes say, ‘I know she is in.’
I hated saying that really big lie.
I am my father’s son
the stubble on his chin,
following him, limping to the pub;
labouring taking their toll,
trousers half-mast,
hula-hooping above ankles:
something I could never do.
We would not vote Tory:
Nye our hero.
Making a list of similarities,
paring them to a word or few:
I am my father’s son.
These children would never lie
‘4.3 million children are growing up in poverty in the UK.’
– Child Poverty Action Group
when shadows grow into guns,
everyone does eat their young.
They sweat like cheese in the sun,
listening to screams from below.
Yes, I know what makes them cry.
Morning is always difficult,
no love just the headboard grunt,
filth under beds, a vile lump,
rooms gripped with stale air and blows.
Tom Kelly’s most recent collection Walking My Streets is his thirteenth book published by Red Squirrel Press, and explores his life and the changing face of his native north-east of England. See here.