Every fall, the leaves start to defect.
I hope the kids get home before the streetlights find them.
On Halloween, we play a little game: we hide in cardboard boxes from the passing helicopters.
The neighbourhood kids are gathering on lawns,
I've heard them whispering with all their curtains drawn.
I've locked the door, while they assemble I surmise
that the powerlines won't block us from the helicopters.
A neighbourhood of separate beds, we sleep alone.
Draped in our own worry, we sleep alone.
People making phone calls from their bay-window blinds, the rockets have been signaled and the mailman steps in time.