Creighton Street's one way--
Halloween's no spookier
than any Saturday.
Things go bump here
every night.
Costumes redundant,
white on white masks firmly in place,
we cut down Maynard to avoid the body,
avoid the pacing pitbull's Renfield snarl.
The police cruiser finally shows, slows.
Car door slams,
no reflection in the glass.
"Iz cool, Man", says Dracula
mother-fuckin' blood suckin'
creature of the night cracklord,
standing over her
heaving pink sequined back,
"Bitch is drunk again."
The pitbull at his feet, bored,
worries the stop sign, growls
as Mina rising in the mist,
punctuates her macabre screams
with hard, fast signs,
spews frantic hand graffiti,
begs for a cross.
"Are you okay, Ma'am?"
Mascara, black on black,
streaks her hollowed cheeks,
races blood and snot
down her purpled chin.
We know they know she's deaf,
watch the constables drive away,
same as always, no saints here.
Lucy the crack whore
working the corner 'cross from Carfax
haunts the gothic doorway,
one eye on the cops' receding tail lights,
the other on Dracula,
calls out "Trick or treat"
to every passing car.
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