Missing

On the really cold days, I can’t feel my feet.

I can’t feel them on the warm days either,

Not the feet, not the eyes, not the elbows.

They’re for the monster, he says.

A new creation, he says.

And I lost the brain. Of course.

 

I am an Igor, and this is my job.

 

I got the right brain, no question.

Not an abnormal one, no sir – I’m not a moron.

Igor U, summa cum laude, class of ’92.

My diploma hangs on the castle dungeon wall.

Anyway, it’s a brilliant scientist’s brain.

Dude discovered some element or something.

But somewhere between the mob attack and the thunderstorm,

I lost the brain, and the doc will kill me.

 

I am an Igor, and this is my job.

 

What do I do?

Steal another scientist’s brain? No.

Takes hella time to swipe a brain.

Maybe I should just ask the doc.  Nice guy, the doc is.

It’s not like he would swipe my summa cum laude brain instead, right?

Right?

 

I am an Igor, and this is my job.

 

The poetry slam at Yeah Write for this month is the bop, a  form I had not heard of before. I don’t imagine there are many bops about the travails of a mad scientist’s assistant. But I couldn’t resist trying one.