It's Still Life

The Cat Responds to Weirdness – (Kitchen Liturgy in a Minor Key)

the cat surveys the wreckage—
the aftermath of the old woman’s latest experiment:

a waffle iron etched with runes
and muttering Latin conjugations under its breath;
a blender full of salt,
sarcasm,
and the ghost of Tuesday’s regret;
a spoon caught in an existential spin cycle.

“this,” the cat announces,
with the weariness of one
who has seen too much weird,
“is why we can’t have nice things.”

it flicks its tail
like a comma
in a sentence it’s tired of correcting—

just as the crow,
ever the agent of chaos and accessorising,
drops a pair of sunglasses
onto the cat’s head.

“now you look official,” the crow croons.

“i am official,”
sniffs the cat,
“i’m the Official, I Told You So.”

the old woman,
elbow-deep in prophetic pastry,
grins over her shoulder,
sugar dust blooming
like a minor miracle.

“admit it,” she says.
“you love the weirdness.”

the cat yawns,
long and theatrical—
a stretch,
a smirk,
and one pointed paw
that knocks the spoon
to the floor
with a clatter that sounds
exactly like:

“maybe. shut up.”