Hating the Monster In Him
Frank frightens the ghouls with his green skin.
Greedy for more girlfriends, he reaches for them.
Lumbering along at a monstrous pace,
‘Why do they run,’ this empty thought.
‘Why do they prefer teeth marks and not his bolts?’
He tries sweet talk but only arghs and rumblings disturb
the night air, which is getting thick with smoke
from tortuous flame — now the horde is after him.
Pitchforks for hay become hateful weapons.
He asks himself why did he kill the only one on his side —
Doctor Frankenstein. He hides and weeps, staining
the cumbersome cube of his face. His clothes cling —
torn in sundry places where his muscular frame gave way.
Frank finds a side door unseen, slides into fresh air, finds
an alleyway where a small child weeps forgotten by the world.
She looks up and curiosity seeks comfort, her small hand
finds the sweaty palm of the enigma of this harvest night.
An orphan coos and shushes the repentant soul.
10/29/2018
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