Out there in the black field
a metal skeleton with a helmet on its head
studies me – anticipates my every step,
tallies my birthdays.
Its grave is tracked with stakes
like candles on a cake
corralled by barbed-wire lace
and yellow tape,
waiting for the balloon to go up.
My days aren’t numbered yet.
But the skeleton head yells at me
if you come to the party
you never go home.’
Tags: new writers