Dead Leaves

The road is nothing but faint
iridescent lines I stay between.
The kids tape masks to their faces
because it’s Halloween,
and no one wants to be themselves
when they can be anything.

Hockey sticks knocking around
tree branches to remove
toilet paper haunting the yards.
Infinite orders within a deck of cards
reminds me that there’s always possibility.

Graveyard drinking, I watch young
hell raisers from a distance
pour entire cans into the grass
as a tribute to the tenants of the land.

Skeletal gloves on their hands soon
pulled off so they can feel each others faces.
I walk down the center of the street keeping pace
with all the dead leaves being carried by the wind.

The face of the town’s clock tower
glows bright like a second moon,
and its chimes wake up the bats
that take to the sky.