Poems From Providence - The Poet's Press

3
Things go wrong
at the American border.
The vampire’s coffin is opened,
the soil sifted by guards
snooping for cocaine,
for seeds and sprouts of pot.
They rip the casket lining,
for suspected bags of heroin.
They shrug, wipe dirt
from his Transylvanian grave
on their trousers, wave
the hearse through. The coffin
is a shambles. His priceless
soil drifts out, the deadly
rays of sun intrude.
His castle reduced to
a leaky shanty,
entering California like an Okie.