Frankenstein's Brain Pan
Polished to a dull glow, silver-grey, welded.
An old TV tube from a junk-yard,
With no brightness to distinguish it from others,
A piece of useless junk.
Then, it moves, mumbles, flickers to life.
everyone jumps back, amazed.
It talks to us in stunted garbled words,
like it wants something.
Maybe it's dying, we could end it,
some murmur, always looking for a scapegoat.
Uneasy, they are, 'cause it's different,
and they don't understand.
We approach it with poles to arm us,
lest it spring up and fight,
but like a wounded dog, it only whines
dragging it's big head around like
a mis-shapen Frankenstein.
Writing by Regina Stemberger