She perches atop the fridge, sovereign and still,
A tiny ruler draped in shadow’s fur.
The hum of the refrigerator her throne room song,
She stares with eyes like stolen moons, ancient, approving.
I chop an onion, tears trickling unfairly,
Her head tilts, a question mark of disdain.
Is it pity, or critique? I’ll never know.
The spatula in my hand feels heavy, small.
Oil crackles, garlic surrenders to the pan,
And my cat watches, unmoved by flame or heat.
Her paws, bookends pressing her solemn silence,
The air changes with the weight of her gaze.
She knows what I am before I know myself.
Not just the cook burning rice or dreams–
But all of me, the good, the careless,
My reflection dimmed in her feline authority.
When dinner lands messily on chipped plates,
She leaps lightly down, disinterested at last.
I almost bow, almost thank her for her time,
But silence rules here, and her tail says it all.