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Her indifference was merely a façade,
Mine too, if truth be asked, it might have been.

The day had been an autumn harvest festival,
A ballroom packed with clichés ringing as bells
A banner was strung across the sky that read, 

               "Fall Has Many Colors"

Would it be too much to say
I felt blue?  

In a pumpkin patch I sat on a throne of hay ,
Harsh golden seaweed barnacled by the Holocaust,
A meal fit for horses and Gods,

A cocoon of horse spit and empty promises .
God often times breaks those emptiest.

I wore an apple on my head and God wore a bow and arrow,
In this equation I was the stick and I was the sparrow.
And he was bobbing for forgotten sons.

Never had I really enjoyed church events,
If truth be asked, I’m not so sure church enjoyed mine.

The burning faces of demons in waiting were priced:
$2.oo – Small
$5.00 – Medium
$8.00 – Large
$14.00 – Jumbo
Donations, of course, were accepted should your cat be allergic to sin.

My daughter, older now than I had been her age,
Came to me with two in her hand and said:
“Why are you bleeding?” 
To which I rolled my eyes, but still recited the obvious:
"So that I may pay for your pumpkins";

We shared a laugh at how naïve children can be.
God from behind shared his own chuckle 
At how needling and sharp his are.;

I became uncomfortable on the hay,
No grapes from fall or wrath were fed to me,
Not that I was  necessarily thirsty,
For fall has many colors, they say;

My younger daughter then approached me,
Empty handed,
Hers was a crescendo cascading through space too loud to echo,
Too bright, even, to create shadows,

It’s not widely known that often times hidden in the shadows,
Are two baskets:
One that contains sunscreen and blankets,
Another that contains a picnic table at the gallows.

My little January sonnet smiled at her father,
Her hand reached out and found my shirt pocket,
Which contained a poem I wrote when I was 7,
And she read it:

	Spring is here, hooray, hooray!
	It’s time for bees to come and play!

If I could be so young again to believe in spring,
To evoke such imagery;

I thanked her and handed her a plastic lighter,
Naturally, she burned the poem,
Nothing had ever burned so bright or sad;

"I love you," I smiled to her,
And she lovingly sang back,
"You’re not my dad",
With that, I took the apple from off my head and stepped off the carousel.

I looked back to wave goodbye to her, 
My little rag-doll sonnet.  I yelled “Bye sweetie!”

She couldn’t have cared any less.

Nor could the apple bobbing in my stomach.

8/7/2016
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