When did it get to be October?
With the puppy gone
And my shorts at the back of the wardrobe?
I think I forgot what cold feels like
And that breezes can bite as well as bathe
The sun is doing its limbo dance
Beneath the stick of the horizon.
Soon it will blind the daring voyeur
As he peeps below the autumn hemline.
There’ll be the annual jamboree
On the front square of my old college.
How I miss that rush of emotive academia.
It wouldn’t be a bad time of year to die
And yet the grass continues growing.
We both await the reaper.
