Sunday, November 27, 2011

Ragtime, Cont'd


We had a cat who was a male

Whose habits and wants none could assail

Except in his dotage he’d flagrantly pee

In places inside where we’d smell, and then see

The vet said of that he could be easily fixed

By neutering him that scourge would be nixed

So I took him in and had the job done

And I told the vet I had a request, only one

That he save the testes in a small glass jar

For me to take home; would not carry’t too far

They were to be sure Ragtime’s prized possessions

And I thought that to save them might stay any questions

Thus I placed in the ice box Ragtime’s yellow-gray orbs

In a small screw-top jar midst the food of all sorts

And with time in the way of fridges everywhere galore

The little jar got forgotten; I knew it no more

I married Dee later, and she liked to clean

She tackled my icebox, threw out many things mean

But my sauces and condiments if questioned got left

For me to not lose so I’d be not bereft

Besides, the mystery jar took so little room

And didn’t look mouldy, formelahyded safely from gloom

The contents looked like something that I might want to keep

So Dee, a good saver, said not a peep

Years later my father visited and in accord with his habit

Required a martini; he’d make it and have it

The gin and the vermouth were there in plain sight

But no garnishments, like olives, cheered him that terrible night

He made do through searching, built a drink I’d have banned

And joined us in the living room, bare toothpicks in hand

And his brow it was furrowed as his lips he did smack

Saying, “Boy, your cocktail onions a wallop do pack!”

“They have a certain gristle I’m not used to having,

And the flavour, though pungent, I’d probably be halving;

How long have you had them?” Though with dawning great dread

I said not “The cat that they came from is dead!”

[David Dix 4-18-2004]