It's Still Life

The Old Woman Mistakes Obsession for Heaven

midnight’s third coffee—
steam curling like a squirrel’s tail
between urgent
and ahhh.

the soft click. click. of her pen,
tasting a new adjective
on the back of her tongue.

and then—
that moment
the poem’s face turns.

a silence like breath
held just a beat too long—
the cat flinches.
the wind remembers a door left open.

bliss
is not an upended bottle,
and spilled ink
on a cat’s paw.