It's Still Life

The Old Woman and the Milk’s Mortality Crisis

the cat paces before the fridge
like a wee, furry coroner,
one paw pressed to the milk bottle’s pulse.

“it’s clinging to life,” purrs the cat.
“one more dawn, maybe two.”
the old woman peers at the use-by date—
smudged, dubious,
possibly written in invisible ink.

“it’s fine,” she declares.
“time is a construct.
also, you’re lactose intolerant.”

the cat sniffs,
and solemnly suggests medical malpractice.

“heroic measures are needed—
namely, my bowl.”

by noon, the milk has legendary status.
the robin hums nearer, my god, to thee,
and the old woman pours it into her coffee anyway.

“mortality,” she toasts,
“is just a use-by for the disenchanted.”

the cat agrees.