It's Still Life

About The Old Woman Without a Cat

The Old Woman and Fridge Archaeology
(a Kitchen Liturgy)

the old woman
pries open the fridge—

the cat perched
on her shoulder
like a pirate’s parrot,

both squinting
at the thing in the crisper:
shrivelled, possibly sentient,
glowing faintly
like a forgotten god
from a discount pantheon.

is it a potato
or a prophecy?

the cat bats it
with a tentative paw.
the thing rolls over,
revealing
one lone sprout—
a green finger
pointing
accusingly
at them.

the crow,
summoned for consultation,
drops a takeaway menu
on it:

CALL THIS NUMBER
IF YOU NEED EXORCISM
OR FREE WONTON SOUP.

the robin
(back from the dead—again)
chirps:
it’s clearly an alien.

the worm,
from inside the compost bin:
i vote we eat it
and blame the neighbour.

the old woman
prods it
with a wooden spoon.
the thing sighs,

exhaling
the unmistakable scent
of lost time
and bad decisions.

fine, she says,
dumping it into the soup pot.

tonight’s dinner:
adventure
or food poisoning.

either way,
the cat’s doing the dishes.