Raising Maxwell

My brat cat.

Here is my cat Maxwell,
jumper and imp truly,
climber of sheer screen,
scratcher of this poet
when I am prone
sans a tee shirt
at bedtime.
Christmas tree stands not,
nor vase, nor a frame of
quaint photographs extant.
Maxwell oft bites toes,
and then claws with
razor-like efficiency too.
Follows me always, into
the bath, pulls towel,
bats shampoo off sink.
Whirlwind is he, fur ball
bolt with a tail trailing
long as limp pompous.
Squirt gun is discipline—
water shoots; Maxwell in
glee gulps the spray.
This does not stop nor
affect manic feline—
discipline merely game…
cat of mine, gray overall
(hint of white underneath),
gnaws gun now drained.
His is brat sass as he
balks at commands or
a plaintive plea of late.
Hellion yes, tabby astir,
roundabout rowdy scamp
ousting litter…his is the
litter box needing attention.
Sans purr, he lets me know.


36 Lines
Writer’s Cramp Winner
8-15-16