What The Cat Doesn’t Say

In my kitchen
there’s a handsome table 
scuffed and cracked,
fag burns, coffee smudges,
a few crumbs I haven’t wiped away.

I wish Grandma was sitting there
with her diamond eyes,
handing me mashed potatoes,
telling me to eat properly.

I wish Granddad was there
with his crinkling newspaper
and all his stories 
even the ones he told a hundred times.

I wish Dad was there
to tell me what to do
when I fuck things up 
and I do.

I wish Mum was there,
you know, just to be there.
Just sitting. 
That was always enough.

I wish there were kids there too 
voices full of noise and hope,
talking about things
I don’t even understand.

But the only one at my table
is an almond cat,
and he doesn’t say much of anything.