Halloween Poem by Ian Keenan
Halloween
I see bits of pumpkin
orange on the wooden floor,
the knife still wet with juice,
a small sock fallen half-way
down muddy stairs.
The night claws in,
the cat a sleeping smudge,
the rabbit haunting its dank hutch.
I eat toast,
staring at old photographs,
ears crackling for the shrieks
of my two black-faced,
fang-toothed sons,
the tricks and treats of my existence.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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5/7/2024 1:04:19 AM # 1.0.0.1119
