Maelstrom

 

Blowing in like a hurricane,
smashing vases and lamps,
breaking photo-frames,
whipping up a cloud of dust,
like Tasmanian Devils
gone berserk.

The racket stops, the dust settles
and in between the shards of glass,
the fragments of china,
the scattered cushions
(which have finally justified their name),
there they sit.

Two of them, licking, preening,
looking rather disheveled
and somewhat worse for wear.
Calm, once again prevails,
until the next, unannounced,
Unscheduled Cat Riot

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