The goodness of God begins with a good cup of tea
on checkered tabletops as red a Dracula’s
plaque or blood drunk sclera, and as white as
café salt shakers infused with rice grains.
This good man destroys immortal monsters in sips
but doesn’t sog his cigarette tips with pink lips.
His ash stick grows long as he inhales
a little more through a filter
into cheeks curled with sideburns
you’d kiss after he saved you by staking
thousands of vampires, each eons old.
Out of the tea room, to view the sea’s business,
a thin man lost in his coat, no cameras to capture,
the goodness of man keeping hell under his heels.