Frankenstein, a runt named
by a father who loved to fling
irony in a zigzag pattern, hunted boars
with a crossbow, eating them for months.
He owned a red ’68 Corvette and a rusty
’59 Volkswagen, and each year we
drove one of them—taking turns after
200 miles—hauling an Airstream.
Here’s your present this year, he said
on the third pilgrimage, handing me
a stovepipe hat. Built like a wrestler,
I knew I’d look goofier than a mascaraed
horse, but I put the hat on my bald head,
said, Thanks, Frankie, and guided
the ’Vette to a stop. We lunched
on crackers and Red Bull at a picnic
table in the fog when Frankenstein
peered through the mist, asking,
Chucklehead, what nightmares
beyond that grey haze are ready
to bludgeon us with golf clubs
and douse our bodies with lighter fluid?
He winked. Let’s go, Midge, maybe
a pair of babes in camo are on the other
side, I answered, opening the car door.
Frankie twisted the wrapper on a purple
jawbreaker. This reminds me of my
pappy’s last bruise before I killed him.
David Spicer has had poems in Gargoyle, Rat’s Ass Review, Reed Magazine, Slim Volume, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Easy Street, Prime Number, The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, among others, and in the anthologies Silent Voices: Recent American Poems on Nature (Ally Press, 1978), Perfect in Their Art: Poems on Boxing From Homer to Ali (Southern Illinois University Press, 2003), and A Galaxy of Starfish: An Anthology of Modern Surrealism (Salo Press, 2016). He has been nominated for a Best of the Net twice and a Pushcart, and is the author of one full-length collection of poems, Everybody Has a Story (St. Luke’s Press, 1987), and four chapbooks, with a forthcoming chapbook, From the Wings of a Pear Tree, from Flutter Press. He is also the former editor of Raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books.