October thirty-first: I’m up all night
Before my birthday, joy like clouds lifting,
Awaiting him, our phantom postman,
Delivering the post through halls of souls.

Familiar footsteps ― each one singing out
The prizes: postcards, unsigned ransom notes,
Shy whispers of belated greeting cards,
Fond billet-doux, death warrants misaddressed.

My mail-slot opens, leaking orange light
Of pumpkin-colored wrap. I recognize
The writing, scents of licorice, handfuls
Of candy corn, delicious yearly treats
Devoured ―before it’s time to haunt again.

My icy tap’s a grave reminder. Boo.