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POEM — Jack-O-Lantern



The sound that reached my ears

was not what I had expected,


and I was surprised at the noise.


After the way he made rough

his voice,

and after the sibilant


of my own inner monologue,

the sound was quite pleasing,


as was the shock.


A confidant ‘present’,

in the presence

of vacillation

and lassitude.


The eruption was without pretext


and there were no lines to read between.


My aim was off.

The dissected shell hit the windshield

square in the centre

and spread out

reaching every corner

sliming down across the hood

sliding back across the roof.



There may have been one strand

in his hair,


and certainly there was a seed

on the right lens of his glasses.


Now there was more to say,

but his mouth remained






Ever changing and evolving, Alma Mobly is a writer living inside a small space in a small town; but filled with big ideas. She can be found at Literary House


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