ANNY AT THE BANK.

A MAN AND HIS BANK MANAGER AND GHOSTLY ANNY.

The bank manager sits opposite you,
His black suit sucking the light from the one
Neon bulb. He flicks papers avoiding

Your eyes; stale cologne taints the air. Anny
Stands behind him, her ghostly hand, inches
From his hair, she looks at you, her blue eyes

Taking in your pale features, her blonde hair
Tied in the familiar bow, her dark
Phantom 1930s dress seemingly

Fresh pressed. The manager, Mr Fyrecrone,
Lifts his eyes and stares, his fingers holding
The papers still. Anny gazes over

His shoulder, her ghostly chin brushing his
Black suit, her small finger touching his ear.
He feels nothing, doesn’t blink, just stares. His

Dark eyes two black pits. You look beyond him
At Anny, her ghostly hand taking his
Pen from the desk, writing neatly on blank

Paper by his arm: Anny Horowitz,
1942, died in Auschwitz. Jew.
 I do not think I can permit the loan,

Fyrecrone says, your collateral’s too
Small. His elbow moves; Anny’s note falls to
The floor beneath his chair. You keep your tongue

Civil as Anny’s there, her blue eyes now
Gazing, the bowed up blonde hair, her hands tucked
Under armpits waiting, her ghostly lips

Mouthing: let us go. Outside the window,
The winter cold, the falling of slow snow.