My friend told me a horrible poem. It goes like this:
Недолго мучалась старушка в высоковольтных проводах.
Её обугленная тушка пугала птичек в небесах.
(The old woman did not suffer long in the high voltage wires.
Her charred carcass frightened the birds in the skies.)
I told him one, in exchange, which my father told me:
The boy stood on the railroad track.
He heard the engine squeal.
The driver took an oily rag
And wiped him off the wheel.
Funny how every time I mention my father, it seems to relate to something ghoulish he said. He told me, as well, about someone whose guts caught fire in the OR—something to do with a nicked bowel, a cautery knife, and a spark of methane. Another time, over dinner, he described the symptoms of pyloric stenosis. I got up and left. Who could eat after that?
I’m not sure if he only dealt in horror, or I ignored the rest. We never talked much, except over dinner and when he drove me somewhere. Oh, and when we’d go beachcombing, when I was small. I don’t think he liked me much once I got older. I got all mean and pinchy, and he sort of gave up. I can’t say I blame him. I’d have given up too. Children are fine when they’re wee and they love you, but once they grow up, you don’t know what you’ll get. (Says me, without children. What do I know?)
Anyway, forget my father. I’ve not seen him in years. This was about a horrible poem. I went to sleep with it still in my head, and here was my dream:
(The lost cat poster was there, with the scraps at the bottom. I put one in my pocket before I woke up.)