John Brennan Crutchley The Vampire Rapist Poem by James McLain James McLain

they said he drained them —
not with charm
but with a syringe.

office door closed,
fake smile,
real bad smell.

the papers called him a vampire.
he was worse.

blood dripping in tubes,
dripping like old beer from busted taps
in dead bars at 2 a.m.

no bats, no castles,
just a slob in a tie,
a geek who found horror
in a bored suburb.

he worked next to you.
smiled like you.
laughed at the same bad jokes.

but inside,
a desert rat,
a hunger with no god.

they caught him,
but there are others —
thousands of others.

the real monsters wear khakis.