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