On Jean Paul Sartre’s Cat

Not a reflection of poor self-esteem

or insufficient familial regard;

still, I am Nothing.

It doesn’t suit me:

I am too proud, straight-backed 

and supple as philosophy

a shadow made flesh and fur, 

my formlessness ideal 

for the hunt. I am mercurial,

a mystery in his living room.

Something unnamed

purring by the fireside.

I am unknowable, unaccountable

the sleek keeper of sneaked secrets.

Only an animal in the abstract.

Unfathomable. I am what the universe 

expands into. The opposite of reason.

Greater than gods, more evil than the devil, 

I am what the rich man craves

and the poor man has in spades. 

Your joke has made a monster of me

a small, limitless void, staring back

with feline green eyes. Good evening,

I am Nothing. Pleased to meet you.

Jean Paul Sartre with his cat, who he called Nothing