Frankenstein, poor fellow, is a piñata
molded and pasted from bits and pieces:
brown leather boot, stick of dynamite, 
flayed skin, piano key teeth, brain
snatched from formaldehyde,
and a tarnished tinsel heart.

His fate? To be knocked and smashed
for the fun of destruction.  I've seen this movie
more than once.  But today, I show
Frankenstein my damaged paw.  He steps
from the screen, lumbers down the dark
theatre aisle, kneels before my seat and asks

that I come away, be his companion.
We slip outside the theatre, along
an alleyway to a small hotel, take a room
overlooking the street women at work.
I tell the story of how I became a monster
in one afternoon.  I show him patches

and stitches, the zipper of saw marks
on my spine.  Oh, damn, he is sobbing.  Even he
understands it's not going to work.
I dry his tears and send him back
to his black and white life.  

Note:  Frida Kahlo became a fan of American movies
when she was in New York City with Diego Rivera in 1933