It's Still Life

The Old Woman and Unsolicited Commentary

The cat sprawls across the kitchen table—
one paw possessively pinning
the old woman’s latest poem.

It is a tiny, furry editor-in-chief
with ruthless taste
and questionable credentials.

“Hmmm,” it muses,
scratching a comma
into the margin with one claw.
“It’s Oxford commas
in this house.”

The old woman arches an eyebrow,
then adds a stanza
about the cat’s unparalleled genius,
shameless vanity,
and tendency to plagiarize
Keats.

The crow drops a stolen red pen
onto the table
with the smug flourish
of a burnt bridge.

“Revise this, your majesty.”

The cat doesn’t look up—
just sniffs,
shifts a clause with its tail,
and purrs:
“I love a bit of brutalist revision.”