Prison-broke
for Halloween,
the sprits dance
around my spleen;
in ghoulish circles
they make good time
as tired poets,
attempt to rhyme.

A hollowed pumpkin
to hold my Jack
as whiskey brings
the good times back.
The haunted house
and Daddy's plight,
I reminisce,
on this lonely night.

Freakish fiends
are walking south;
and looks what's open,
bag and mouth.
I sit crouched
on this haunted street
just waiting for a straggler
to trick or treat.

10/06/2016