It's Still Life

The Keyboard Chaise Lounge
(Or: A Feline Declaration of Workspace Sovereignty)

The cat is stretched across the keyboard,
full length,
tail draped over the escape key,
one paw resting softly on the space bar,
as if he owns it,

which, in his mind, he does.

The Old Woman peers over the top of her knitting,
needles paused,
skepticism
etched in her forehead.

“Why,” she asks,
“are you treating my keyboard
as a chaise lounge?”

The cat blinks.
Slow,
and unrepentant.

“Because it is warm, Old Woman.

Because it glows,
like a sunbeam,

because when I stretch,
letters appear.
A poetry of accident.”

He shifts slightly, “Watch.”

The screen fills:
“fffffffff jjjjjjjjj mmmmmmm”

“See?” he says.
“Art.
Minimalism.
The critics will call it
‘brave and unsettling’.”

The Old Woman sighs.

“It’s nonsense, cat.
And you’re shedding on my work.”

“I am the work,” he corrects her.
“You were writing about me, right?
Exactly.
I am muse.
I am editor.
I am co-author.
I delete with my tail.”

He curls tighter,
tucking his nose under his paw.

“This is collaboration.
You may continue.
I will supervise.
From here.

Comfortably.”

The Old Woman reaches for her tea,
and begins to dictate aloud:

“The cat is stretched across the keyboard,
full length…”

The cat purrs,
“That’s better.