Spirits' Eve
It is the only time we get to laugh at black
So appropriate at funerals and their various progressions,
More Dixie Land at home in New Orleans
Parading back of happy brass from marble vaults.
Invisible mansion of imaginary rooms
Mirrors to us, windows in the other world.
A restless spirit in greasy lipstick pleads
Silly in its backward gibberish.
Some freeze flies inside flows of ice cube trays
Or float eyeballs docked adrift along a punch bowl rim.
Cadavers remain respectfully pre-Frankenstein,
But cars are parked on swayback roofs of barns.
Around cemeteries people see
Head stones jauntily erect,
A sporty take on plumb
For cement pours and rebar more than bone.
Our hearts leap and shriek
At masks flashing from the shadow alley ways
And ache our lungs
To be made so easily afraid.
Copyright © Stephen Wilson-Floyd | Year Posted 2022
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