It's Still Life

The Old Woman and the Quantum Lawn Gnome

The gnome both is and isn’t—
Schrödinger’s kitsch, grinning sideways through time,
one foot tangled in the chives,
one foot hovering in the seventh dimension,
tracking mud across both.

The old woman squints, pokes it with a rake:
“You’re technically trespassing.”

The gnome winks.
(Or doesn’t. Or winks in thirteen simultaneous realities.)

Bells jingle on his knees—Morris-dancing,
flinging maybe-it’s-pollen
that smells suspiciously of 1998, boy bands,
and regrettable hair gel.

The neighbour’s cat—
(former quantum physicist, current saboteur)—
yawns without collapsing its own waveform.

“Collapse the damn field,” it grumbles.
“I need a solid place to nap.”

The crow, not to be outdone,
drops a compact black hole
(stolen from a bored intern at the Large Hadron Collider)
into the gnome’s lap.

“Store your there/not-there here, genius.”

By dusk, the gnome has multiplied:
one drinking from the hose,
one astride the roof, cackling,
one raiding the fridge—
eating the old woman’s leftover lamb curry
like entropy had a loyalty program.

“Classic,” mutters the old woman,
raking around squatters in existential space,
already regretting tomorrow’s grocery list.