It's Still Life

The Cat and the Penguin Inquiry (A Winter’s Tale in One Act)

The cat is pressed against the cold glass,
the garden becoming a white sentence,
watching the snow like it’s television
for intellectuals.

“When,” he asks,
without turning,
“will the penguins arrive?
The documentary said snow
means penguins.
And ice.
And… formal wear.”

The Old Woman looks up from her knitting.
“That’s the Antarctic, you fool.
This is Sussex.
The only thing arriving tonight
is Mrs. Higgins’ Amazon parcel
and possibly frostbite.”

The cat’s tail twitches.
“But are they tasty?
The penguins, I mean.
As compared…
to sardines?”

She sighs, the kind of sigh
that has seen three monarchs
and one cat who thinks
penguins are poultry.

“You,” she informs him,
“have the logic
of a toaster
and the ambition
of Napoleon.”

He blinks, slowly.
“So…
that’s a maybe?”

Outside, the snow falls,
soft, silent, and entirely penguin-free.
The cat waits anyway.
Hope, like hunger,
is its own kind of faith.