Today, I ran past the public pool

still filled with summer water.

Leaves are only just turning decadent,

copper and scarlet, plum-trimmed 

edges everywhere. Aromatic brooms

line the supermarket entrance.

Shoppers sniff them,

cinnamon bristles poking nostrils.

Pumpkins brazenly suggest it’s time

I realize who I might be if I kept

a tea light lit inside me.

I go down into the basement

and unbox last year’s costume.

The detachable raccoon paws smell

moldy, but I stick my hands in them

anyway. I need to get a feel for what

has changed. Back upstairs, I fix a snack

fit for a scavenger: two jicama tortillas

sprinkled with cheese and microwaved,

then topped with corn nuts.

This fall is different because

you’re dead again.

I put on a show about

truckers whose vehicles have

flipped, and when the men swear 

to the camera about

a sudden turn,

I nod in agreement.