by Justin Tate
The perfect pumpkin from the perfect patch
I select to carve on Halloween night.
Vibrant orange with stem haply attach’d,
I saw an opening in sheer delight.
But from that hole emerged a wondrous cat,
Orange, too, and covered in pumpkin gut.
Wild and arched the feline poised to attack,
And as I sat marveled, my face it cut.
The scratch ran deep, from my eyebrow to chin
And from it oozed a greenish, putrid muck
That burned and hurt worse than Judas’ sin;
I fear strained breath reveals I’m out of luck.
But I won’t complain like the bourgeoisie,
Death tonight means returning a zombie.