by Rob Carney

In this one, we know what’s coming:

The kids will shove that witch in her oven,

 

her shrieks—Oh, Lordy—like knives

in the gingerbread air.

 

Slam the door

and they’re muffled, then

 

they’re none, then probably

a smell we shouldn’t dwell on.

 

But what comes next?

A lot of walking;

 

birds have wings,

but kids don’t.

 

Birds can get by on a scatter of seeds,

but not them.

 

Then finally the border,

and a cage with a Thermo-Lite blanket,

 

or a cot in a tent next to other tents—

how high can you count?

 

And how long is each week of this?

Who would invent such slow clocks? . . .

 

The new witches here have policies

and gingerbread excuses.

 

They have employee parking and, I guess,

some way to muffle doubt.