Poetry

Schrodinger's Cat

John Whitworth

My cat is dead and yet she is not dead.

I am a mite concerned about my cat.

The world is as it is and that is that;

It discombobulates inside my head.

My hat is red and yet it is not red.

If worlds be otherwise I’ll eat my hat.

Pondering darkly what I think I’m at,

My hungry sheep look up and are not fed.

I stuff the cat inside the hat and place

The hatted feline on a waiting sheep.

The esurient ruminant, without a peep,

Begins incomprehensibly to weep:

The criss-cross tracks of tears refulgent trace

Like skittering stars across her stupid face.