There’s keys on the wooden table
Scratches that you moan about
Indenting their history of our
Comings, goings, panicked runs.
One of the cats rumbles. I can’t see
Which one. But she knows what’s
Coming. Or so I like to pretend.
I would like to think something
Animate will take in a slight
Change in the air.
Fancy. Washing bubbles
Stain the worktop
But I know it doesn’t matter.
I’ll remember standing here as
Voices hover over the fence.
It’s hard not to listen as words
Trout suckle at your ears.
My hair tangled in soap suds.
Doors close. Lights switch off.
I imagine it in darkness.
The bag hangs from my arm
The cars parked with tree dew swirls.
There’s a ticket. A curtain. A step
In a direction that begins and ends