Evening banter in long shadows,
A tall task to turn between -
So many faces embroiled in talk,
Then marching over food to boot,
Plunging into machinations thick,
Colouring our verbal games.

Drawing the week to its end,
Yet I do not hold this folding fabric,
But watch the metal rings above,
Slide along their axes onwards,
Shutting out the light of day,
Closing out this daily play.

A small cat with bright eyes,
Stands frozen to stone before a curious gaze,
On its face - clearly guilty,
On the nose - quite clearly ashamed,
The cavity runs deeper in the treat box,
The tumbling treats more cavernous than innocent days,
It's seems a rough tongue is twisted into bows and knots,
And meowing shall delay for the moment,
Treats will surely come anyway?