rain-dancing woman

Schrödinger’s cat is dead.
Thank God.
She might have been alive once,
Or twice, or all nine times.
(We had no way of knowing.)
She’s dead by now, though—must be.
Long dead.
Thank God.
Let’s rise up from our squatting place,
For now we may wander unworried,
No longer hunched from listening,
Our ears pressed tight against the box,
For her soft, starved meow.