Ghosts rise, my brush broad-stroking outdoor glass,
The store already closed, fluorescents on,
Illuminating my half-finished sketch.
Stray skeletons, masked witches, pumpkin kings,
All smiles and hope, parade down bat streaked blocks,
Embracing trick-or-treat bags — pirate’s loot.
Despite my weariness, my brush takes flight,
Creating doors that open to a reign
Of orange bliss just harvested: plump yams,
Carrots, spaghetti squash. A scarecrow smirks,
His jack-o-lantern head lit, menacing
Owls, bellowing harsh candlelight. Unnerved,
I freeze, aware I’m not alone, about
To curse the closed mouth sky, providing no
Clues where this strange farm lies — nor how to leave.
Sly skeletons, loud witches, pumpkin kings
Approach, aggressive country primitives.
My horsehair brush is weaponized, collects
Enough white tempera to cover each one,
Obliterating malefactors with
Ruthless efficiency. Strong stubborn winds
Convey me to a secret corridor
That’s underneath the Brooklyn store where I
Was working on my mini masterpiece —
Completed in my absence. Can it be?
A painted scarecrow meets my eyes and winks.
