[The twenty-ninth installment in the month-long poetry sequence that began on October 1st.]
"Seems Like Old Times"
Abigail St. Clair
"Miss Abby? Whatcha doing over there?" Phil Wheatley calls from his car
When he spots me emptying my handcart and setting up in the town square:
Thin-legged card table, Halloween table cloth (black cats/sickle moons),
Big dispenser full of cider, plastic cups and cinnamon sticks,
Basketful of the pumpkin muffins I just happened to have been baking.
"Oh, I figured all them people marching in the parade tonight
Would 'ppreciate some refreshments once they finish their route."
"Parade?" he echoes, incredulous. Distance and darkness eclipse
Everything but the whites of his teeth, tiny floating ghosts.
"Ma'am, do you understand what's going on here in town tonight?"
"Well," I tell him, "I heard there's goin' to be a public ceremony held.
So you best move that jalopy outta the way before everyone gets here."
"Anhh, crazy old bat," he proclaims before stomping the gas pedal.
But I pay him no mind, just settle into the lawn chair I'd unfolded,
And sit here waiting, anticipating the start of the festivities.
God, it's been ages since Grantwood hosted a good lynching.
No comments:
Post a Comment