Seven o'Clock
It’s 46 degrees
On Halloween night,
And the arching, empty stands
Loom down on costumed children.
A flapper,
A princess,
Another stereotyped Harley Quinn.
So many things I could be.
But instead I came
As a dead-beat writer
With a red-lined copy
Of a broken manuscript.
And the costume fits too well for my tastes
Unlike the others
Which hung too short
Or stretched too close to the ground.
And as I scramble with the bowling pins,
Setting them up to knock them back down,
A slivered moon lights up the sky,
Floodlights probing the dark.
It’s seven o’ clock,
And the gates have just closed.
The last batch of kids are coming through,
And somehow it is already dark.
It’s time to pack up now,
And pull down the navy gold banners.
The night still shouts with laughter and fun,
But it’s growing older now.
Many are heading home,
Spoiling their dinners
And going to bed,
Content already with their haul.
Yet for some,
There’s still time left tonight.
To take a treat
Or catch a fright.
0 comments