Pumpkin
Before sleep takes me on some bizarre journey into
otherworlds and conversations with
blurry strangers, or
a meeting with a distant crush, and
before we can consummate our lust
in the dim waters of almost-rooms and patterns,
I think of the October pumpkin settled
on my stoop.
It rests near frost-bent geraniums
on the flank of cold cement,
a deep wound notched into its flesh by some
desperate creature.
I know that tomorrow, when I carry it beyond the
pointless dying lawn and
toss it toward the compost pile,
the weak husk will empty out and eventually
feed the earth.
So I sleep.
I won’t be sending these little pieces out via email.
If you’re a fan of shorter writings and pieces like this one, you can find them here: