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


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