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Count Dracula

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His sallow face assumes a snarl.
His rouged cheeks’
competing sunsets flare
with each rehearsal of his rage.

While twirling
on a lacquered heel,
he trips. His cape
envelops us in night.

His cane becomes confused.
An exclamation mark
without a point of reference,
it clatters to the flagstones.

Tour complete,
we check the time, await
the last irrelevance
of electronic laughter.

First published in The Tribune, Palmerston North.