The Day After

Smashed beer bottles, crushed cigarettes, a mangled mask

Caution tape whirls

in bitter winds,

tangling with wigs and vampire fangs.

Drones above, clicking cameras, pry on grief,

Media stomps on fresh bouquets

for the dead.

The officer’s gaze, trained on his feet,

so he won’t have to see

the crushed, heart-shaped locket.

Families blame

the survivors who blame

Friends who blame

the absent police.

The president’s people

bury the blame.

Pleas for justice lost in chaos.

The Day Of

Visitors clad in capes and gowns

mingle under fairy lights

A pop star’s presence

lures in fans

who crave a glimpse,

shrieking and shoving,

as walls close in,

that suck in crowds

and lock the cage.

Animals stumble,

and fall to the floor

–a fox, a lion, a bear–

Yesterday’s costumes

a clearance deal.

More lunge forward

To fill the space.

Screams succumb to silence.

The Day Before

Plans are made in neon bars
sipping beers and hugging friends

Before

they hit the costume shops

Hangers draped with

soft velvets

itchy tulles

fluffy furs.

Joy and giggles fill the room,

As people play

identity roulette.

Then off they go to paint a face

with glitter and jewels and bedazzled beauty.

They take their bags

and pass on by

haunted shops decked in lights.

Alleys that promise sizzling beef,

pan-fried dumplings,

sticky rice cakes served in sauce.

Treats for tomorrow

marinate

in witchy cauldrons.

The spell has been cast.