Trick or treat, smell my feet

Halloween

Sacks of candy from big box stores,

Grab bags jammed

With Jetblue

Drams of sweetness,

heavenly hosts of sameness

bestowed

on the stoops of each

and every house

on my block,

Plenty Good

for the endless line of petitioning

Marvel and Disney

intangible assets

interspersed

with vampires and the odd

Freddie. 

I’ll admit to sleepwalking my way

through this pagan ritual

until a pint size Winston Churchill

presented himself and sent me

scurrying to the scullery

for Bombay gin

in a highball glass, the MP

no sooner having weaved  

off into the night

than appeared

a ragtag gaggle

of beggars.

Reagan and Leary

Armstrong, Hitchens and Grant

crying out for jellybeans

acid and EPO,

single malt and Cuban cigars,

threatening all manner of mayhem

and dirty tricks when low

and behold 

as if on cue

a late arriving Cheney

deftly shoving

Molly Ivins

into the shrubbery

while asking sweetly

for nitroglycerine

and a Dum-Dum for his little brother George.