You want me to write something

less political,

something about the blithe gambol

of squirrels, perhaps,

or of the unprotected innocence

of children,

so here I am to tell you about

the trick-or-treaters

wandering among the porchlights,

bags extended,

more heavy after each door.

They are no doubt smiling, happy

beneath their borrowed identities;

not plagued by the printed plastic shrouds

we draped over our own childhood,

or pinched by rigid masks pulled up between houses

so we could gasp another deep breath

before performing the next doorbell.

I hope, as you surely do, they return home tonight

chocolate-laden,

that this seasonal ritual of illusion whispered

to them of possibility,

that their sleep will be filled with sugar dreams and fantasy.

They have not asked for what is coming.

The gathering storm clouds claxon

we may have only a few months left

before we’re killing each other in the streets,

so I am grateful the unprotected innocence of children

has had this one last opportunity to pretend.

Now tell me: Was this what you had in mind?

Was this the poem you wanted from me?

Or should I tell you about the squirrels next?