I spy
a comfortable
chair at the sympathy
pantry while huddled at
the blast door near the entrance.
All
Hallows
Eve beckons
like a wild rush of
frigid, Canadian air,
rendering all clothing
mute in utter repentance.
My
mask
shall rule
from the inside
since all grotesque
notions begin their lurch
toward inevitable conclusions
in the cacophony of my humming
electrical circuit of potential lethargy.
