Our orange globe
with carved-out face
like a lantern flickered
from its porch step place
Jack glowed at dusk
through his jagged grin
his visage haunted from deep within
he cast his spell on passers-by who boldly
looked him in the eye.

October’s days are nearly told
leaves fly about, the spark’s grown cold
since the flame burned out Jack’s glow is gone
his eyes have closed, his face caved in
there’s nothing left of his toothy grin.
Even his seeds are now long roasted
Of his remains–they’ll soon be composted.