It's Still Life

The Cat and the Sunbeam Thieves
(Or: A Treatise on Rooftop Injustice)

The cat sits at the window,
tail flicking,
eyes narrowed
to furious slits.

Above him,
on the roof,
the new solar panels
gleam.
Smug.
Corporate.

“Old Woman,” he says,
voice low with betrayal,
“what are those.”

She glances up from her tea.
“Solar panels.
They make electricity.
From the sun.”

The cat turns.
Slowly.
With the gravity
of a judge
who has heard
a truly stupid defence.

“From the sun,”
he repeats.
“My sun.
The sun that lands
on my rug
for my nap.
That sun?”

“It’s everyone’s sun, really…”

“It is not.
It is a limited resource
and I have
a loyalty card.”

He leaps to the windowsill,
presses his nose
to the glass,
and glares upward.

“They are stealing it.
I can see them.
Greedy.
Black and shiny
like beetles.”

“They’re helping the planet.”

“I am the planet’s
most important creature.
So they are helping
wrongly.”

He hops down,
paces a small,
precise circle,
then stops.

“I have a plan.
You will go up there.
You will tell them
to give it back.
Politely, of course..
Then I will sit here
until they apologise.”

“I’m not going on the roof.”

“Then I will.
I have excellent balance.
And a grievance.”

He sits.
Wraps his tail
around his paws.
Stares at the ceiling
as if it has personally
let him down.

The Old Woman sighs
and fetches a cushion
from the sofa.
Places it on the floor
in the last warm patch
the panels have left her.

The cat looks at it.
Looks at her.
Looks at it.

“This is compromise,”
he says.
“I do not approve
of compromises.
I approve of sardines.
And surrender.”

But he steps onto the cushion,
turns three times,
and settles.

“They will pay for this,”
he murmurs,
“In the spring.
I will sue.
Everyone.”

He closes his eyes.