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.