| The Feast By Warren Crane Wolfman tells his barber, “cut it short.” Darts in for a baguette and A nice Bordeaux, Then Hustles home In the fading light. Puts in a new triple edge and Shaves his face and neck ever so close. Applies two tasteful drops of Shalimar, Slips into a delicate negligee. Fresh sheets, the table is set. Opening the French windows To the crisp Transylvanian night, He glimpses velvet wings Glide across the moon, and Spritzes virgin blood to chum his prey. The landing is stealthy and quick. Wolfie feels chilled As the wings block the moon, then Soothed by a seductive warmth, His defenses nearly dissolved. The scent of surrender, The promise of comfortable compromise. In the nick of time, His purpose reclaimed, for This is dinner, dalliance comes later. But wait! Wait! Feeling the breath on his neck. Wolfie springs, biting the meaty thigh. Dracula recoils, disgusted, confused. His flight blinded by tears of shame. Wolfie gags and retches. Ancient Undead flesh, is Not the same as an aged fillet. Still, the wine is fine, the bread good. Mmm, virgin blood is inviting. Huddled in his crypt, Dracula licks his wound, Puzzled by the itch of new hair, The urge to howl. What’s with these fleas? Warren Crane 2003 © Used with permission of the author. |