It's Still Life

The Old Woman Declares the Milk is Still Cold

she presses the glass bottle to her cheek—
a trial by touch, a verdict rendered:
“still cold.”

the cat (still not hers, but always judging)
flicks its tail like a metronome set to skepticism:
“prove it.”

so she does:

exhibit a:
the condensation’s slow slide,
thick as honey.

exhibit b:
the fridge light’s hum,
still smug with electricity.

exhibit c:
the crow’s shadow,
caught mid-theft in the icebox.

the robin, haunting the butter dish, chimes in:
“in my day, milk came straight from the cow—
and we were grateful.”

the old woman pours a splash into her tea,
watches the cream
swirl like a tiny galaxy.

“your day is done,” she tells the robin.
“this milk is mine.”