Pumpkin Head, by Pete Mullineaux

rotten pumpkin

Once I was the eternal optimist,

despite the annual massacre of my tribe,

my own personal decapitation;

taken from my roots, brains scooped out,

left in need of an orthodontist

– I could still force a grin,

the light inside flickered on.

Even with that disastrous makeover

it wasn’t all bad: no hair, ears or chin

but wasn’t that a pumpkin after all?

And with just a click of my imaginary toes

my fantasy nose, the loan of a fairy wand,

I could abscond and off, with horses,

coachman and all to the palace ball.

But now there’s no escaping the truth

of our short-lived usefulness

– faces turning inward,

those smiles collapsing as the rot sets in.

The compost heap or rubbish bin beckons.

Time still to claim the darkness,

own and share our light

– pumpkin heads unite!

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