halloween

with the fog he
could smell east van from miles
its gunpowder pungency
seasoning this cold thick soup.
with his ears he
could hear fighting past
the dusty orchards of normandy
cracks pops whistles a
patternless ceaseless cacophony
to match a war's meaning.
maybe at least the ducks
found cover somewhere
in the black of the north shore
in the blacker shadows of the
towering doug fir. they could
wait it out with the geese.
still the unquiet youth are here
swallowing processed sugar gobs
smashing pumpkin globes
beneath the flash glory of
roman's candles and
witch's whistles and
forever night shades
of a city's yellows cast.