Mischief Night
The oak tree, with its fried chicken trunk
Has been here every Mischief Night of our lives
Standing with stern grace
Dodging eggs as they float towards houses on nights like these
With wooden fences in our peripheries
We consider the grass
And the fallen leaves that are delicately propped up
On its needly points
And we wonder
Why on earth our fathers would want to plant more grass in the summertime
They stood in the kitchen
Screaming their guts out about leaky pipes in the basement
And the brand of cereal we picked and our little brothers who were in school that July
In the empty gym that reeked of paper
And then they’d slam the sliding door to plant the little shards of grass in the bald spots of our backyards
There were always itchy bags of grass seed on our bookshelves
There was so much grass, although it dies in the apple cold air
Halloween is amazing here
We walk on every lawn
23.04.2024