of hailstones throwing
torches
cracking holes
in these back porches.
Dancing crimson
in a prison
of ice.
Shaking tales
as barnyard mice.

The sky is weeping
nectarines.
I stand behind
The back porch screen.
Wind whipping them all
like pinballs in a penny arcade
as I'm sipping lemonade.

Talking heads
these jack-o-lanterns
as I sit behind the curtain.
I carved the faces out myself,
hiding the knife in a book
up on the shelf.

Another night
of fitful sleep and the pain
of butchered sheep.
I'm on the lam.
And cooked just like
the holiday ham.