Calavera Number Six

A Poem by Bob Boldt

Artificial skeletons are hardly ever displayed
now in thought or in sight.
Shop windows are voided of all but surgical masks.
Imagine what all the uncut pumpkins
must think of the strange ones this year.

Halloween was the time of Ghede
whose breath smelled of freshly turned earth
and was once caught soaping a skeptic’s window.
The scariest thing I see are trogs knuckle
drag-racing from coast to flaming coast.
The poet said angels often don’t know when
they are among ghosts or the living.
At least TV makes me feel angelic
when my only contact with reality is
Jim, my Asperger neighbor

and Brit Hume.
This prayer-consuming peace feels
like the slow-motion before the crash:
those precious count-downs to what you,
and I, and all must taste.

In this precise facsimile of Krapp’s den,
I wander in a replay life and wonder
how I will know when I’m a ghost.
I’ll be sure to ask my calavera
when its empty.

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