An ancient man shuffles towards me
as I walk down a dark Brooklyn street
past an old park
where trees can’t be woken
by the stare of streetlamps.
Clad in a black cape,
long silver hair.
A breeze lifts the cape slightly
to see if anything is inside.
As a small boy
he cavorted in this park,
his limbs wings.
Dracula has aged,
can only dream of blood
as he slips past me.
A wooden stake in his future,
he spits a few Transylvanian words,
shadows past my rapid gait.
Originally published in Cacti Fur magazine