This is me
reflected in the ornate mirror.
Narcissism motivated him to hang it above his desk.
Why else gaze upon himself
each time he perches before his clutter,
his face in a gold, baroque frame.  

My grimy fingers stroke the silvered glass,
grotesque image, assembled identity.
Stubby, clumsy fingers – calloused, work-worn,
were these a smith’s hands? a farmer’s?
A prisoner’s sentenced to hard labor?  
Hands sutured to arms of different lengths
from two separate corpses provided
by busy resurrection men.

This cranium puzzles.
What bones did he epoxy to create my face?
Why the over-hanging brow?
The weight of this head presses,  
stresses my Tinker Toy spine.

My unnatural flesh, jaundiced and mended,
sprang from The Doctor’s madness.
Such hubris, a god complex
to think he could make man.

The sight of me fuels my temper;
choler troubles my carpentered chest.
Wrath seizes me

                        I grab the monstrous mirror  
                        with its baroque frame
                        and my hideous image

                        and slam it upon the cellar flagstones
                        Now a hundred shards reflect     
                        a deconstructed monster
                        compounding my disgusting self.

Hush now,
I hear The Doctor coming.