the vampire poet

by Mike Foldes

take the dull man with the blank stare
sitting on the redwood bench,
the heavy set woman at the grocery
searching for the perfectly ripe fruit,
who looks sideways at the bent man
pushing the smaller of two sizes
of wheeled wire carts, empty
but for a box of bruised strawberries,
the child screaming to be freed
from the publicly acceptable
rolling stocks holding her
in a royal position at the top
of the heap of toilet paper, diapers
cereal boxes, egg cartons, ice cream
and her mother’s black leather purse,
take them all, color them
like dye transfer photographs,
pour the life back into them
with the swipe of the fox fur
paintbrushes of Manet or Seurat,
animate their tired lives and reverse
the spell of ordinary cast over them,
wipe the webs from their honeyed eyes,
bury your canines in the lexicon
of nameless manners,
reverse the curse
and give them back
their well-deserved
and everlasting lives.