She’s running out of sounds to assign
to Layla, Kitty, Ginger, Mittens,
Amber, Skittles, Buffalo, Grey.
She’s too aligned with 90 degree white wall
whispers not oak murmurs,
red hawk flights or yurd fireplaces.
Princess of docility in Wythenshawe.
Council estate, cat-sitting her fellow feline cousins,
caged, a rat on antibiotics, agoraphobic.
Her hair mirrors Layla’s tail,
when cracking branches used to
accompany her awake eyes to sleep,
lukewarm PG Tips bitters the now.
NHS ambulance sirens bear no grudge,
pass by like days over Mother Earth.
Knocks on the chestnut door are rare
but colonial daytime TV is plenty,
as thick as gorged down pea soup.