The Vampire Who Didn’t Get Jesus
On Sundays, as the people of our town
put on their Sunday best, you wouldn’t catch
the Count leaving his castle, coming down
to join our congregation. Like a batch
of fresh-baked bread, we worshipers emerged
into the morning, scrubbed behind our ears –
the Count sat out this ritual. We urged
him to come join us, through the passing years
and through the generations. He did not
get Jesus. On our garlic-ridden breath
came reasoning, entreaty, but the lot
was grain on rocky soil. And the slow death
of conversation when we hosted him
in our small cottages – the way he gazed
at our untroubled mirrors in the dim
light after sunset – left us less amazed
than disappointed. Love thy neighbor, is
the Good Book’s word. Yet our Count did not heed
the nets we cast – we fishermen. The fizz
in our heart ended. Such was our good deed.
The Vampire Who Didn’t Get Jesus
Nice one John, like the title, and there are playful elements in the poem that thread the narrative. The bread batch was a smile ('in thatched cottages' could be an option), as was the 'slow death of conversation'. I liked the net casting too. There are no limits to good intentions, though outcomes often disappoint
Enjoyed
Phil
Enjoyed
Phil