my first published poem

Vlad

I didn’t want to be Vlad the Impaler,

but Dracula happened to be my middle name.

The morning frost on stiff grass

screeched as I walked across,

as if I killed it

little by little, step by step.

I needed a beer.

Sleeping in a casket is

not as glorious as it might sound.

The stale air violates my sensitive smell sense.

My neighbor was cooking a meal

that stank of burning rubber and onions

and made me think of killing him

slowly, softly,

enjoying every last excruciating minute of agony

as I watched the life leave his eyes.

But not today

I have something to do in fifteen minutes

I’m late for my shift at Kinko’s

For the next eight hours I will make paper copies

of the blurry snow banks,

daydreaming of the night.

--Sean Sprigle