The October People

My misshapen folk
are gathered on the porch
a week before Halloween,
bound in Salvation Army
clothes, torsos spilling
newsprint. Propped up
on lawn chairs, gestures
lame but lifelike.
Kite stick bones,
raffia hair, wig stands
tilted so their empty eye
sockets can look after you.

Passing school kids dislike
the attention. They rush past
with eyes diverted
or go the long way around.
Others linger and watch,
walking closer each day,
waiting for a still life
to make its move.

In November, children
still slow and stare
when they pass my house,
as if it's still that month
when straw and burlap
people posed a threat.
When the walk home
was laced with frosted
orange light and the last
October day was hallowed.

I-70 Review, Spring / Summer 2018