in the dying hours of night,
Dracula sits in the driver's seat,
recounting all the necks he kissed in vain.
He lights a blunt laced with garlic,
knocks back 40 ounces of holy water,
bats his eyes at the rearview mirror
damning the nobody looking back.
He sharpens a wooden stake
with a silver-plated knife, carves
a cross across his bloodless wrist
and prays for an after-afterlife.
In the vanishing minutes, he challenges
the day to one last game of chicken,
revs the engine, picks a religion
and crashes into sunlight.