THE OLD MAN WHO BELIEVES HE’S A VAMPIRE
By John Grey
He rattles off the names –
Dracula, Alucard, Carmilla, Nosferatu, even Vlad.
And he loves to tell their stories.
To him, they’re forever sucking at virgin throats
or impaling the enemy on spikes
or clambering bat-shaped
up the sides of buildings.
He opens his mouth
as if to show his fangs,
but those yellow uppers and lowers
are the teeth he’s always had.
And he raises his arms,
bends fingers into claw shape.
His eyes are red but un-glowing
from a life of alcohol abuse.
“I don’t drink…wine,”
he says
as if he’s making some kind of joke.
Despite his severe arthritis, his cancer,
he believes the undead dwell within him,
even if he can’t get out of bed,
go on a rampage,
slake his thirst on whoever
accidentally crosses his path.
We can only feel sorrow for the man.
He’ll be dead soon enough,
in his coffin, but as a final resting place,
not a hideaway to get him through
the fatal daylight.
For now, he’s undergoing blood transfusion.
It’s the only joy left to him.
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