Cardboard Crates of Pumpkins
Oct 26 2010


Cardboard crates of pumpkins
lined-up outside the superstore,
tractor-trailer sized
crammed with bulbous orange orbs.
Like expressionless orphans,
waiting for some family
to take them home.

Someone bet the farm
on a single day
in the festive calendar.
And now, there’s a cornucopia of squash —
a loss-leader
at cost.

The rich pumpkin scent
returns me instantly to childhood,
which is when I last carved into one.
And the vaguely menacing entrails,
like cold spaghetti
or hollowing out brains,
scooped onto yesterday’s paper.
I’m as bad an artist
as I was back then,
plunging in the kitchen knife
— a toothless smirk
a walleyed stare.

I choose one with character,
lumpy, and asymmetrical.
A homely gourd
that some might take as ironic
mocking the excesses of this holiday,
but I mean with all sincerity.
So now, the house is redolent of fall,
a pumpkin
filling the window,
staring out
almost longingly.

I hate waste
and would love to make pie,
harvest food
instead of ornaments.
But I bake as well as I carve.
So the pumpkin will end up
broken, on the sidewalk
waiting to be trucked
for landfill, or compost.

For awhile, though, the company is nice.
And the sweet pumpkin smell
it leaves behind.