Halloween
       

In high school, we crammed into Justin's Chevy,
drove to a no-named road, turned off headlights,
blared the stereo, mashed to The Clash and Minor Threat.
We curled our hands into fists, pretended to scream into a mic,
while our bodies bumped and crashed against each other
and October leaves crunched beneath our Chucks.
We devoured candy bars, until our teeth and lips blackened,
and when we tired, we wiped sweat from our shaggy hair,
panted on the Chevy's blue hood, muted
power chords, and instead played The Exorcist theme song.
We gazed at the abandoned farmhouse down the road,
its shingles loose, its porch rotted.
Like neighborhood boys placing be ts,
we dared each other to smash windows
where tattered curtains billowed from mid-autumn winds.
I imagined scenes from The Exorcist, a demon with decaying flesh
spider walking up and down a cobwebbed staircase.
My friends labeled it a druggie hangout.
They cook meth in there, JustTn said.
I saw heroin needles on the lawn last time, Matt added.
We kept our distance, blasted punk rock from the stereo,
forgetting we had no costumes,
we didn't get invited to the party
with six packs and girlfriends willing to investigate
the farmhouse down the road with us.
Instead, we piled kindling, sparked a fire,
danced and slammed beneath a pale moon,
while flames illuminated our jack-a-lantern grins.

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Copyright © 2016 Brian Fanelli All rights reserved
from Waiting for the Dead to Speak
NYQ Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission