A Chat With A Vampire Iii Poem by robert dickerson

(he'd been to the premier of Figaro) , all the sounding fountains; incomparable Budapest, the pearl of the Orient; the jingle of sleigh bells; candle glimmer; intermezzi; and dear Scriabin-an affable dinner guest-(one of 'us' you know) '. 'No, I didn't', I replied, 'really'.
'All that complexity, all that simplicity-gone', he mourned. 'But one must be modern'. Trends-how he hated them: rock, rap, the presses' fault-Americans, or something. Patience gone, he paused. I yawned. We talked for an hour. Strange to say, I found myself charmed, whether by his pallor, his linen, his obvious antiquity or his boredom, I don't know. Or the mink-like hairs of his head? He seemed to me a lovely anachronism, mothish, totally alone, the saddest man I ever saw. We agreed to meet again, sometime.
'Wait a minute', I said before we packed it in-'is everything you told me the truth'? - it all seemed so preposterous.

'Truth', he snorted, tossing back his head and narrowing his eyelids to slits, 'is what the majority believes is true'.
Not knowing how to answer, I agreed.
''OK, goodbye. Hasta la vista'.
It definitely was one of my more unusual assignments.
'Call me anytime', he said, you have my number.'