I am a happy Frankenstein,
built from the remains of what others left behind,
the parts that survived the axe and arrows,
the lightning strikes and swamps.
odd bits and bolts showing,
more scar than skin,
kind of a lurching, dancing monster,
a few parts dangling that make no sense.
I wasn’t good looking when I was young.
Prone to mistakes.
The sort that dove into fires for fun.
Probably in need of parts, even then.
Those villagers, stereotyped with flares
and misunderstandings burning bright,
Eager to curse and crush me
and at times, nearly succeeding,
likely did me a favor.
Never a beauty,
at least now I am interesting.
About this poem
I have been waiting for months for the poem in this picture, taken at an antique fair, to emerge. This morning it did.
This one was fun to write.