The Ukulele Lady

In Burnley.
A wet, Friday afternoon.
October slate sky,
and the car park is full.

Kerbed on a backstreet,
the ukulele lady.
Applying lipstick,
a cadet hat,
for the lost boys in the room.

Once a month here,
she gives them her hour.
The half-swallowed memories,
in the final chorus of life.

As she enters the lounge,
the smell of stewed fruit,
dribbling mouths,
and TV quizzes,
always smother.

In towns such as,
Manchester,
Oldham,
and Bolton.
Their daughters and sons,
drink to forget their health.

They are all here.
The old men.
Johnny come lonely.
George, Brian, Frank.
Gerald, dizzy Danny,
and homesick Mohammad.

All except knowing Norman.
Where has Norman gone?

He is her little man,
in that moth eaten cap.
Norman has all the words,
writers, crooners, and songs.

Never mind.
It’s showtime!
She gives them all a wink,
the ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’,
and ‘It’s Only A Paper Moon’.

They clap and hum.
Out of sight and out of mind,
out of luck and out of time.
The streetlights flicker mustard.

Later, in the staff room,
she sings an Oasis tune.
Tugs hard on the strings,
splits a fingernail.

All the girls scream along,
Sally says 'Norman’s dead.
Good riddance to him,
the weekend is now.'

The ukulele lady,
can’t fight back the tears.
The last breath here,
never takes a bow.