Near Halloween
What if we hadn’t leapt aboard that night—
A flatbed truck, hay stuck to hair and clothes,
Head Ghoul raising her megaphone to blare
old campfire tales across the muddy roads
all murk and darkness? What if, when I’d called
near Halloween, some carved gourd flickering,
you’d chosen to stay home? Masked farmers struck
by floodlights shot up, flailing, and pursued
us, fiends turned loose on cue, while friends from work
laughed at the spectacle, and you drew close—
amused, annoyed—scarred leather jacket drawn
across your shoulders as we rode, till sparks
hurled after us were raining all around—
More pyrotechnics wasted on the ground.