It's Still Life

Old Woman Explains “Full” to the Cat

The cat parades in,
feathers stuck to its grin like party confetti,
the robin’s tail dangling
like an unpunctuated sentence.

Drop it, says the old woman.
The cat blinks, Make me.

So she tries philosophy:
“Full is when your belly is a bowl,
and your soul stops licking the spoon.”

The cat licks a paw,
unconvinced.

She tries physics:
Full is the bowl with no bottom,
the hole that outgrows its hunger.

The cat flicks an ear—
Your metaphors need work.

She tries bribery:
Full is the sound
of the tuna can opening
in the next life.

The cat hesitates.

Finally, she opens her hands—
empty as the neighbour’s birdbath,
or the space between mine and enough.
The robin thumps to the floor,
a rumpled semicolon.

The cat sighs, Fine.
But only because you’re bad at stories.
It stalks off to nap
in the sun’s golden lap,
where full is a temporary condition
and all debts are paid in fur.