It's Still Life

The Cat and the Man in the Moon
(Or: A Feline Lunar Audit)

The cat sits on the windowsill,
nose pressed to the glass,
tail curled around its paws,
gazing up at the pale, glowing coin
of the full moon.

“Old Woman,” he says,
without turning,
“I don’t see a man’s face.
I’ve been studying.
Intently.
For minutes now.
And there is no man.
There is a nose-shaped crater.
There is an eye-shaped shadow.
There is what might be
a very disappointed badger.
But no man.”

The Old Woman looks up from her book.
“It’s a story, cat.
People see what they want to see.”

He flicks his tail.
“Then I want to see cheese.
The moon is cheese.
Aged.
Crusty.
Possibly Swiss.
I see holes.
I see a snack
that is teasing me.”

He sighs,
heavy with longing,

“Someone looked at that
and said ‘man’?
Clearly they’d never met a cat.
A cat would have said ‘brie’.
Or ‘dinner’.
Or ‘why is it not in my bowl’?”

He presses his paw to the glass,
as if trying to bridge the distance
between desire and attainability.

“You humans.
You see faces in clouds.
Animals in stars.
Hope in empty fridges.
I see reality.
The moon is a cheese-shaped rock.
Poorly lit.
And there’s no man.”

He turns, hops down,
and pads toward his bowl,

“Case closed.”