THE DYING OF ELSIE TANNER


An unwashed plate. Egg yolk and bacon rind.
Last symbols of normality
amongst starched white sheets
and strange, crisp voices.

Fashions flash before you, favourite snaps
from a cherished album;
Manchester’s nightlife, neon lights, cabs,
a season on the Spanish Riviera.

The class of ’35… what happened
to them all? Too late now,
the working class girls.
Whose arm is it around you here?

You’re unsure, craving for a cigarette.
Dying is a silent movie
a black and white soliloquy
whispered to an empty house.

 

Mike Mcnamara


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2 Responses to THE DYING OF ELSIE TANNER

    1. Icon and ideas mesh in perfection here. another enjoyable poem from Mcnamara.

      Comment by helen greenleaf on 10 January, 2021 at 4:13 pm
    2. a tender accurate pop poem about blessed popular culture
      bravo MM
      more power to your pen

      Comment by jeff cloves on 11 January, 2021 at 1:57 pm

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