I’ve done worse,
boosting the life prospects
of some lump of flesh and bone
with tubes and fluids and lightning rods.
Yes, there were repercussions:
the odd peasant strangled,
a little girl drowned,
my fiancé traumatized,
a village in full mob fury.
But imagine your Aunt Cynthia
back from the grave,
baking your favorite fluffy biscuits,
or a revived big sister Kate,
alive again,
playing Chopsticks on the grand piano.
Progress can be messy.
A criminal’s brain here,
a priest’s heart there,
mismatched legs and arms.
Buying odds and ends
from the teaching hospital.
Midnight graveyard soirées.
Coffee break with Quasimodo.
Yes, I could have tried it on mice,
but who wants another dead mouse?
So here’s to blood and pus,
stench and goo,
some fancy stitching,
and the occasional thunderstorm.
Fact is, you can’t make an omelet
without putting some runny eggs back together.
