October rises on the breath of summer’s ghosts,
walks the midway of a county fair named purgatory,
drinks the last of my gin, making room
on the bar for cider and resignation.
Let’s make this holiday holy:
a baby pumpkin king, a messiah
with arms stretched into bat wings,
wise witches and skeleton saints.
Let’s talk about painted leaves and how
they crunch under our boots and tennis shoes.
Let’s talk about how we hate corporate coffeehouses,
then steal away to take pumpkin spice communion alone.
Let’s breathe the cinnamon breaths of October
until our lungs are full of ash and hope
for the ghosts of another season.