Here is my favorite ever pumpkin related poem. Written by my favorite ever Chicago unknown Poet, Ed Peterson.

Waking Jack

Said Sophie to Jack,
“Do you feel
distant from your family?”

& the answer shot
“of course,”

and when the gun refrained
Jack’s mouth collapsed
on gums, the way a week’s decay
makes the Jack-O-Lantern appear
more human and frightening

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Fold up the faces
Don the ritual smocks
Pinch closed all the beaks
Flock silent as raindrops

Then, if you please,
the speeches and finger foods
freckled cubes of cheese.

“Jack was so plump & round
& I loved him from every angle.
He was my march of time
my most effective line.
He was my helplessness, my fear.
Queer how the snarl
on his lip endeared
right until the end
& I have never grown a pie
& I have never known a friend
never nothing really
until this very moment, when
now I know it all,
free & sickening as the fall.”

Sophie’s face crumpled
(weakened, but as art stronger still
for the shrinking of sly smiles,
grimaces of rot, likely as not
from a week on the sill)

yes, it crumpled, pushing wrinkles toward her lips
when Sophie lit a cigarette
then smoothed the black skirt on her hips.