Phenomenon Enough

At first, Maxwell was nothing more than a comely
kitten, a black and white bundle of imp and purr
pouring over anything and everything, as cats
are want to do.  A meow, a trill, a whisker in
my face, a tail brushing my cheek, and in fact
a feline face so close to my face it might as
well have been behind.  Ah, Phenomenon
enough, I dare say, generating joy and
giggles, an elation, a warm feeling in
the mid-section of life.

Yet things began to move on
their own: a pen would roll off
the table, newspapers would leaf
manic-like as if in November wind,
canisters beneath the kitchen cupboards
would slide precariously close to the edge,
but never did they fall.  Even computer 
mice bolted across the carpet. 

I looked at Maxwell and noticed a glimmer
in his eyes, plus a grin as if he enjoyed my
amazement, my disharmony, my awe and
my annoyance.  He sure did.  “Maxwell!”
I would demand, my hands on hips, but
he, in feline glee, swished his tail and
winked an eye (of this I am sure), then
moved a lamp, and a knickknack or two,
or the latest issue of Time Magazine from
the Lazy Boy to the love seat.  My new Pet.

It’s almost like he knows, somehow, of when
John Travolta, in Phenomenon, was struck by
by that light from on high and developed
telekinesis, and scared the crap out of
all the townsfolk.  But Maxwell does
not scare me.  He is phenomenon,
all right, yet I can’t get enough.


35 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
2-6-16