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 The butcher knife goes in, first, at the top
And carves out the round stemmed lid,
The hole of which allows the hand to go 
In to pull the gooey mess inside, out -
The walls scooped clean with a spoon.
A grim design decided on, that afternoon, The eyes are the first to go, Isosceles or trapezoid, the square nose, The down-turned mouth with three Hideous teeth and, sometimes, Round ears.
At dusk it's Lighted, the room behind it dark.
Outside, looking in, it looks like a Pumpkin, it looks like ripeness Is all.
Kids come, beckoned by Fingers of shadows on leaf-strewn lawns To trick or treat.
Standing at the open Door, the sculptor, a warlock, drops Penny candies into their bags, knowing The message of winter: only the children, Pretending to be ghosts, are real.

Poem by Mac Hammond
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Book: Shattered Sighs