Not Billy Collins

It is a tea pot
Not a saucepan on the gas ring
Bubbling and filling the kitchen
With a comforting steam

It is not the door
Waiting for the cook's entrance
And through which
Can be faintly heard
Chris Barber’s Cat Call

Nor is it the window
Where the sun and the moon
May be observed
Taking it in turns
To archly cross the sky

Nor is it the telescope
That stands in the hall
Its barrel dusty
And marked with the prints
Of children’s fingers
Like putty moons

Nor is it the garden path
Awaiting the careful tread
Of the poet Billy Collins

No, it is not Billy Collins
It is a tea pot