The cat waits by the fridge feet for the ring of porcelain

And as the evening tips the light out the cup,
and the wall hues bruises,
she blunt thumbs on the lamp
switches shoes,
bends to stroke the tabby cat,
her back burred in clock hands.

She’s thinking of blitz, maternity wards, divorces,
of holding hands on bike rides singing Daisy Daisy give me your answer do,
of cellar provisions
of skin on skin
of strings of babies
biting a rose gold teething ring.