It's Still Life

The Cat’s Singing Lessons (An Ode to Avian-Aided Ambition)

The robin starts with scales,
light as dandelion fluff —
“Try trilling deeper,” she chirps.
“Like you mean it.
Like you own the fence.
And the worm beneath it.”

The cat responds in C major,
with a hint of threat:
Mee-YOWL-ooooww…

Is that art or a cry for help?
The line is thin.

The crow joins in
from the leaf-full gutter,
teaching rhythm
with the beat
of stolen spoons —

Caw-caw-KA-BLAM!
“Now you try,
you fluffy amoeba
of chaos!”

And the cat —
oh, the cat —
puffs out its chest,
squeezes shut its eyes,
and lets out a note
so glorious,
so off-key,
that the old woman
drops her teacup
(again),
and the wind
forgets which way to blow.

“I call this
Piece for Treats and Terror,”
the cat declares.
“Encore?
Yes,
but of course.”

THE AFTERMATH
The dog three doors down
is writing poems
it will never read.

The wasps
buzz a jazz fusion trio.

The old woman is both proud —
and deeply,
deeply concerned.
Her heart swells
like a proper proud
storm cloud.

She leans
against the fence post,
her smile
tucked into her wrinkles
like a secret
she can’t keep —
watching the cat
hold a high C
like it’s a hostage situation.

“That’s my menace,”
she says,
to no one
and everyone.

But she doesn’t clap —
oh no,
that would spoil
the aesthetic.

Instead,
she leaves out
an extra-special sardine
on the good china plate,
because art deserves
a proper tribute —

even if it sounds
like a teakettle
falling
down
the
stairs.