It's Still Life

The Cat on Time
(Or: Why Clocks Are Just Decorative Anxiety)

The cat sits before the mantelpiece,
one paw raised toward the clock
as if delivering a closing argument
in a case he has already won.

“Consider,” he begins,
“the clock.
A round face.
Two hands.
Constant ticking.
And for what?
To tell you it’s 3:47
when your stomach knows
it is now.
Now, Old Woman.
Now is the only time
that matters.”

He paces…

“The Egyptians had sundials.
They looked at shadows
and said,
‘Ah, yes. Time to eat.’

The Greeks had water clocks.
They watched the drip
and said,
‘Ah, yes. Time to eat.’

You have a stomach.
It growls.
It is ancient wisdom.
It is biological precision.
And you ignore it
for a quartz mechanism
inspired by a Swiss man
who never once knew a cat.”

He stops,
stares directly at her.

“My stomach is more reliable
than any clock.
It does not lose time in spring.
It does not gain time in autumn.
It does not require batteries.
It simply knows.
And when it speaks,
the correct response is not
‘It’s only 4:17.’
The correct response is
‘Yes, Your Majesty. Right away, Your Majesty.’”

He flicks his tail at the clock.

“This device has no purr.
No intuition.
No investment in your well-being.
It just ticks.
It is passive-aggressive furniture.

I, on the other hand,
am living time.
Furry time.
Hungry time.
And I am telling you:
it is now.”

He settles,
loafed and expectant,
a philosopher with a snack agenda.

“You may keep the clock
for decoration.
It matches the sofa.
But when you need to know
the true hour,
you have me.

And I am currently
very accurate.”