October
October is
a miser's dog.
October will bite quickly into you
with none of
September's licking and pawing.
With a heavy snort, half the leaves from the tree outside your warm bedroom
explode like
brittle excuses.
October smells the
insincere,
and rips into it
without gnawing.
Muffle your apologies through a high collar, wipe away fake
tears on your tight, shiny fake
leather gloves.
You will never see
October stir.
October watches you drag
your padded
shadow along for a walk,
tail slung between its legs, back-lit
by the dying fires
of
summer, shivering.
Everywhere is October's fenced
and frozen yard, its dark pissing-turf, where you belong
to smirking
whim and hot breath and cold teeth
as soon as the leaves turn brown
then black,
and October finally shakes off
a long false sleeping.
--jurph, 1996