It’s odd to me that there’s a time of year
When we’re at peace with skeletons on doors,
Where ghouls elicit smiles rather than fear,
And everybody suddenly adores

The spiderwebs that they’d fain brush away
In any other month, and recreate
In pristine homes a semblance of decay,
Suburban normalcy to desecrate.

And while a cynic might turn up his nose,
I can’t not be delighted by the sight
Of all the weird with boring juxtaposed
For weeks on end- not just a single night.

I know, behind each spicy pumpkin drink,
We all have more in common than we think.