She said
(if I may beg your pardon,
her complex computer jargon
was so alien to me
it sounded like a foreign tongue):
“A bug in your configuration
sped up your disk drive rotation
‘Till the force that it exerted
was incredibly perverted
and the friction from the portal
could have proven very mortal
if a person had been near
the CPU when it went queer.”
(I thought of Fluffy sitting by
the keyboard silently, as I
had left to pee, but upon my
return I’d quickly found
sparks and flashes filled the air,
not a feline soul was there,
but– some burning tabby hair
smoking in a mound.)
To the girl I posed a question:
“Do you mean this was ingestion?
Did my Macintosh computer
gobble up my cat from sight?”
“Well,” she couldn’t hold back laughter,
“it’s quite possible that after
long years of starvation
your machine has had a byte.”
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