The pumpkins still sit in a line.
They are angry faced and bucktoothed and branded by smudging numbers:
1, 4, 12.
Those are my favorites.
They’ve been stationed for weeks now, like unhit targets. Their shooter has hesitated.
They have begun to deflate beneath themselves, overwhelmed by the weight of their sweetish skin, which wafts its presence into the air past the chapel’s steps. Their orange hide becomes yellow, and then becomes brown leather, feasted upon by black winged insects.
Tribes of shiny eyed flies.
Behind my disgust is relief, for their feast is unlimited and bright. They are unchanging and powerful until the day that the pumpkins are discarded and the winner is chosen.
I hope it will be me.