Echo; in Sweet Bucket (Written on Samhain/Halloween 2025)

I sat; upon; an Asda shelf;

to ponder; is life; purpose?

Or; perhaps; just be; lazy;

for I; would do; no worse,

then; an avaricious grab;

denied; my right; to answers,

as I heard; their garish cheer

from them; impure romancers,

with the beep; at the till,

“bucket slave”; my name,

etched like Jack o’ Lantern,

that’s left out in the rain,

but, just a little while,

I was placed indoors,

as they downed; pre-party drinks

turning into whores,

disrespected ghosts,

aspired; to break some hearts,

and dressed up; to advertise; to

men; who play their parts,

no wholesome homage said,

wanted trick and treat,

where grins were; and are the knives

piercing hope; defeat,

tipsy she-cat clutched me,

along with dizzy witches,

by the smell; of punchbowl breath

they could end up in ditches,

flippantly; they staggered out;

like pendulum; I swayed,

making friends with lamppost,

to take away some shade, but then

I saw a hoodie,

representing future,

egging all the windows

thus; him; prospective shooter,

then the obvious happened,

wolf whistles; witches hunted,

and the she-cat; taken too;

hence; I was left; so shunted,

to which; my contemplation,

returned; to me; in gutter,

should; I be; a plastic king;

or should; I never splutter?

Regardless of response,

my question; no one took it,

so; my sad; reality is

echo; in sweet bucket!