The Pumpkin

Strolling alone that summer
Afternoon in a garden
Whose owner's name
I could not remember,
I chanced upon a huge pumpkin

That had weaned itself
From its stem and vine,
Its face slightly wrinkled
And weather-beaten
As it stared at me through

A pair of tunnel-eyes
Which were crudely drilled through
By some hungry earthworms.
Pardon me for being
Judgmental, but the pumpkin

Reminded me of a corpse's
Pitiful countenance locked
In a dumb expression of death.
Now I wonder what the pumpkin
Thought of this vain seer,

At first impression
While leafing through
The creased pages
Of my booklike face
With its eyeless gaze.

 





E-mail: Simuchang@aol.com


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