Goodbye Hollow Ween

My parents left me in the car while they voted for President Roosevelt at the grade school. I had my jack-o’-lantern for company.

There were three older kids, school kids, moseying my way.

“Hey little boy,” a big girl said, knocking on the window.

I was transfixed by the glovebox door.

À big boy said, “Whatcha holding? A punkin? Hey, Hollow Ween’s over. Funny eyes.”

Canted and slanted, feral cats’ eyes, not boring triangles.

“Your punkin’ll rot.”

“It won’t!”

“Those your parents?” and they ran.

“You made some friends,” Mom smiled.

Next morning, blue-green stalactites and stalagmites: rotten jack-o’-lantern guts.

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