Ben Rasnic - One Poem

October

The breeze attending
this afternoon's drizzle
contains a certain chill

Behind a misty veil,
sun softens its vigilant eye

At the edge of town,
the crowd in the stadium
has turned, like rotting fruit

Soon, clouds of smoke
from the orange skulls
of flaming pumpkins
will mask a full yellow moon

and the crisp night air
will succumb
to the chants
of tiny extortionists.