Isn't it Gas

She left a glass on the kitchen table, not

 full but not empty either, nearly there

The transistor radio was tuned in to Radio 4

A better class of listener dwelt in this abode

Envelopes with offers of excitement and reward

Had fallen one on top of the other, inside the door

The cat was glad to see me, or maybe just anyone

Turned round my leg and out the door, gone

Looking out the back window, the grass

Was enjoying the spring rain, needs cutting maybe

Bins need leaving out, so I did, then made me some tea

She’ll be home soon, shuffling with her bags, no doubt

Raising her voice to explain her aches and remedies

Giving her love to all and sundry, and meaning it.

Electric kettles don’t run on gas, but dinners do

So I checked the back kitchen, that’s where she was

Kinda half in, half out, checking, but no food to be

Found, in the oven, just a puzzled head, now dead