Thumping the pumpkin that sits iced on the ledge of my porch made of brick red, concrete and mortar; the flesh of the orange hollow globe, half-frozen, half-liquid and oozing from its growing black sore. From October, it came to its place on the edge, now January it inches more slowly to its death. Carved not a face on its wrinkling flesh but instead left to rot from inside it stands, looking out on the people in the snowy streets, who howl and cry out from over boozed bars to retreat from their lives in which they pretend to lead. I am counting the days when it will release its contents at their feet. Gray, green and moldy with flecks bright blue what a wonderful palette of colors will be spewed. A smile is creeping at the sight I will see, how happy the days of this eventual time.
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