November 1st

There are no more stars–
just the lights surrounding
this house. You’re held
by the inflated Santa,
the reindeer still grazing
the powdered grass.
You know the glow is just
wires, yet you’ve returned
after so many years.
But Santa still doesn’t wave
for you.

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A figure is flung
by a bullet’s puncture.
My nerves hum
with the beauty of flying
cars. I don’t need ideas–
the suddenness of a building
exploding is enough.

Tom from Poetry Circle pretty much co-wrote this one as this is basically his version (with some tweaks on my part) of one of my poems. Thanks goes out to him.