On the laps of our beloved smoking mothers –
I heard them talk about the world
when they were young.

The festooned nights of war-torn bingo halls –
where everything was just about right and unjust
about wrong. Where no one owned a phone.

How Steph danced with a Stepney Elvis –
love me tender, love me true. The mortgage 
and the factory belt. The disappointment of the pill.

Gloria and her boy from Des Moines. 
That morning he found God, the evening she found gin.
Waving him off at Tilbury Docks. Another sailor, every sin.

And Julie wondering how to make ends meet.
As she pushes the roundabout, rocks the swing.
Beans and bread in a plastic bag, snagging on a ring.

Yes. I can still see them on abandoned mornings –
alone with scratched blankets for their winter ghosts.
Cigarettes in mouth. Eyes down. Enraged of England.