Guest Poem by Nick Pearson

Nick Pearson lives in Telford, Shropshire and regularly reads his work at festivals and live literature events across the Midlands. He is currently the Wellington Resident Poet. His books are published by Offa’s Press This poem is from Acumen 107.


He spends fifteen minutes bringing stuff in,
makes himself at home on the bathroom floor
as if he’s arrived at a favourite camp site.

I hear him thinking behind the door,
his expertise the commodity of silence.

He reminds me of a person I’ve seen before,
a supporting actor in an old Mickey Rourke film,
some comic sidekick from a BBC classic.

When he passes along the hall or stairs
there is a smell of fabric conditioner and fresh tobacco.

His spectacles hang from his neck on a leather cord,
his power tools have the calm, low frequency buzz
of equipment used for personal grooming.

I see him returning to his van to fetch more stuff,
his expertise also the commodity of time.

I will trust him like I would a nurse,
I will give him the long number across my bank card,
I will open and close doors for him.

Each morning he will wake with what he knows,
and each night I will sleep with what I don’t.