It's Still Life

The Old Woman Considers Ownership

The Old Woman watches the cat
— that cat, the one who paces
her kitchen like a landlord
collecting rent in broken sleep
and half-remembered dreams —

and she says, soft as dust:
“Perhaps you are mine,
in the way the wind owns the sigh,
or the crow owns that stolen spoon
he buried near the mugwort.”

The cat stops mid-pace.
“HERESY,” it scowls,
tail twitching like a metronome.
“I am nobody’s!
I am an agent
of chaos
and selective affection!
I allow you this kitchen!
I permit you that garden!
I tolerate….”

but then —
the Old Woman opens the fridge.

The cat hears the click,
the hiss of light,
the promise of something
cold and delicious —

and its principles dissolve.

“…Unless,” it amends,
“you have double cream.
Or French sardines.
Or that pâté
from last Thursday.
Then perhaps
we can negotiate
a temporary
non-exclusive
cohabitation agreement.”

The Old Woman smiles.
She knows—
some treaties are written
not in ink,
but in the language
of open cupboard doors
and shared silence
and one unspoken truth:

You never really own a cat.
You just learn the words
to its favourite song.