An ochre dusk through the window,
stewed apples sighing from the hob
and slippers squeaking back and forth
on the lino - Mum’s become Gran,
Son now Dad, but a boy still plays
at the same Formica table.
This kitchen’s hub, its ersatz knots
are giving off a perfect shine,
The empty chair is staring hungrily
while I eat my pasta, each spoonful tracked
by the arching slats and tethered cushion,
by the almost eyes of the almost you,
by trees swaying through your almost torso
and clouds converging with your almost hair.