Max of Destruction

Maxwell, a long-haired, gray and white cat,
destroys things.  His eyes sparkle, his
tail rises high and his whiskers twitch
during every destructive spree.

Maxwell pounces on the kitchen
counter, bats a teacup with
his paw, eyes it narrowly
shattered and scattered
on the linoleum.  Proud
is he, smirking near
the canister set. 

Maxwell charges
the Christmas tree,
alighting like a gypsy
moth on bowed branch,
meows as tree leans, then
as it’s crashing to the carpet,
leaps from the branch in time.
He looks at me like he’s the
show, and criticisms lack
the will to live. 

Oh Maxwell, sowing wild cat oats,
incising back door screen with
claws, like he can do as he
wishes because it is there
and breaking beckons.  A
Lazy Boy is no match; he
finds opportunity to use
it as a scratching post.
Ergo, efficiency of paws
as fast as chatter, makes
mince of something whole.

Knick-knacks arc from tabletop
as Maxwell seems to take a
bow.  Delinquent feline he,
atypical pet careening his
way through all nine lives.
Maxwell even bites the
buttons off shirts, with
folks still in them.


40 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
10-21-17