It kicked-off sometime in September
and nobody knows when it will end.
Mid-December, snow in the road,
and night after night kids keep coming
for another round of trick or treat.
On every doorstep there’s a pumpkin,
soft and green, and in every window
a paper skeleton or the sun-bleached
shadow of a vampire bat. The churchyard
is busy with lovers. Some pot-bellied
Power Ranger delivers the morning paper.
The Jobcentre is filled with zombies.
After weeks of bobbing for apples
my face is a mask of Richard Nixon
and I’ve had enough. I can’t take you
seriously when you say you love me
in a ridiculous Transylvanian accent.