The radio plays
Sunny afternoon,
it's The Kinks
She's cooking
in the kitchen,
and all chaos reigns.
Flour, butter,
mixing bowls and
her making lemon cake.
She sings loudly
as chefs do
in restaurants.
It's a lemon cake
like ma' used to bake.
She warbles
and the radio's blasts,
the telephone rings
and the dog barks.
Her neighbour, next door,
throws a watering can about,
in protest.
Fresh lemons fill the air.
I watch from the cat basket
my whiskers twitching,
fur bristling, back arched
eyes - firmly
on the cat flap.
Ruth Walters
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/lemon-cake/
