Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Pumpkin by Justin Tate


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.


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