Seven seconds past 10PM,

my gun’s shadow

disappears

into Halloween’s night

with five imaginary

bullets in its belly and

a poor man’s death wish.

It roams the street, knocking

on every door, baring a grin

of metal teeth.

My knife’s shadow excuses

itself out of the drawer,

creeps to the fridge, grabs

a mushy plum. It carves

two eyes in its purple face and

sets it on the front step, hoping

raccoons don’t get it

before sunrise.

I peek through the blinds, watching shadows

crowned by the pale moon,

dancing in tree-breathed wind, drunk

on the night’s perfect dark.

The sugar plum’s shadow sits

there obediently,

two eyes soaking up starlight—

perfect in its disguise.