Sleep, darling! Your accessory

After the fact is here — that’s me.

I see you fluffy, ten weeks old.

You smirk. We’re too surprised to scold.

The kitchen floor is purple-black:

You’ve worked a bottle from the rack.

A click of claw — the heater’s on.

A flick of paw — the dog is gone.

But these, we learned, were minor stunts,

For soon — ah! — you began to hunt.

God give you everything you wish:

Dynamite for killing fish,

An anti-aircraft gun for birds,

A repertoire of handy words:

Like “sorry,” “I,” “forgot,” “to,” “say,”

“Just,” “borrowed,” “your,” “big,” “knife,” “today.”

I hear Creation click and whir

In you, dear bag of fur and purr –

In you, Destruction’s polymath.

Sleep, my little psychopath.