It's Still Life

Where is the Old Woman?”

…the cat demands,
pacing the length of the kitchen,
tail held high like a sceptre of injustice.

“She is late.
My bowl is half-empty.
My sunbeam is un-warmed.
This is negligence.”

The crow, from the fence, offers:
“Perhaps she’s writing poetry?”
The cat scoffs.
“Poetry doesn’t fill stomachs.”

“No shit!” agrees the robin.

Just then—
the back door opens.
There she stands,
holding a sprig of lavender,
a new tin of sardines,
and that quiet smile,
“I was never far, my little tyrant.”

The cat freezes mid-complaint,
then saunters over as if he hadn’t noticed her absence at all.

“You are here,” he says,
rubbing against her ankle.
“Good.
Now …
about my stomach…”