It's Still Life

An Olympic Curling Critique
(Or: to curl or not to curl)

The Old Woman is curled up under a blanket,
watching curlers sweep ice
with a focus usually reserved for bomb disposal.

The cat sits on the floor beside her,
tail twitching in time with the stones.

“Amateurs,” he mutters.
“Look at that sweeping.
No conviction!
No flair!
And the yelling —
‘Hurry! Hurry hard!’
I yell harder
when I see a empty food bowl.”

The old woman chuckles.
“It’s strategy, cat.
Precision.
Geometry.”

“Precision is when I knock a vase
so it lands exactly on the dog’s head.
This is just…
people with brooms
chasing a rock.”

The British skip misses a takeout.
The cat covers his eyes.
“Tragic.
I could’ve made that shot.
I have excellent weight transfer.
And my paws are naturally grippy.”

He glares at the telly.
“Harumph!
That’s not curling;
I’ll show you curling.”

Then he curls up —
on the old woman’s lap,
and falls asleep.