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 from our squat,
For now we may wander unworried,
No longer hunched from listening–
One ear tight against the box–
For her soft, starved meow.