THIS YEAR
THIS YEAR
This year I dressed you up like a skeleton.
You probably won’t remember.
It wasn’t much of a costume.
An old t shirt with bones on it,
some sweatpants
and a plastic sickle I picked up from the drug store.
This year I took you to a corn maze.
You probably won’t remember.
It had a pumpkin patch,
and a giant inflatable slide.
You rode some bumper boats,
had fresh lemonade,
and watched some college aged girls
dressed as clowns
sing a song about morals.
This year I drove you to a neighborhood.
You probably won’t remember.
They closed down the streets
with a fire truck and extra policeman
just so the kids could be safe
shuffling from house to house
begging strangers for candy.
This year, I went to sleep next to you.
You probably won’t remember.
I was thinking about next year
and the year after
and the one that’s coming too soon
where you’ll be done with me
on your own
in the dark
throwing eggs at houses
drinking in the bushes
vandalizing cars,
It had me knotted, just a touch
but those things happen.
This year was a great Halloween.
You probably won’t remember
but I will.