The pumpkins are quiet.

The wind smells of trouble.
Cinder, ash, and cumin.

The wet leaves spin in clumps, loudly.

I walk down the street in a quiet neighborhood.

On nights like these, caramels are made and souls hang in trees.

Assumed character, false name.

The right music plays and everything around me becomes surreal. Looking at life through a pantyhose covered lens.

The rain just let up, the breeze stays, the chimes ring up and down the street.

The once wilted flowers are now beaming.

The people across the way have started the moving process again.

Through the screened in windows I can hear the neighbor’s toddlers scream with glee, surely from watching some brightly primary colored television show.

The next track starts.

The limbs that carry the leaves are still heavy from the brief downpours. You can still hear the drip, drip, drips of the past. Wonder what Sartre has to say about that. Was Simone masturbating against the tree trunk?

The awkward teenager that is going through her ugly phase practices her violin down the street. She prefers the songs of heartbreak and I wonder if she’s ever kissed a boy. I bet she thinks of breasts as pillows, how guys want them, but will sleep just as well without them.

It’s getting to that time when the dogs walk their people. Charles, Socks, Pepper, Lovitz, Maddie, Ellie, Shelby, Browns, and of course, Aldridge who isn’t so much a dog as he is a cat, but still each one of them walk their owners down the street. All barking at the same things, even the cat Mow-Mows his way along. Imposter.

How long will I let it go?

Of the toes that bend.

Non dirlo a me.
Non dimenticate.
Non prenda.
Ho sempre dare.

Non aspettare.
Non urlare.
Non lasciare.
Io vado sempre.

Non piangere.
Non cadere.
Non pausa.
Mi fa sempre piacere.

Non.