When She Sold October

She sold October
to pay the bills
and wonders why
the boy won’t return
her calls.
Every Halloween,
years after,
she dons the same
costume: October.
Even though
she hates lenses
she needs the grey
To cover her blue.
The clothes fit less
as the months turn calendars,
but she gets them on,
ridiculous in and never minding.

A branch broke the window yesterday,
and she came running,
hoping,
he’d forgot his key and wanted in –
the limb disappointing.

Word gets passed to scraps which pose as notes till October sees,
won’t read,
and proves them garbage,
tossed without a thought.
"He’ll call tomorrow,"
she whispers to gin.
And if not,
"I’ll call him."
Another bin bound hello.

But the oven heats, the fridge stores, and the lights all glow.
Thanks to October
being so valuable.
She cries
wishing she’d pawned instead of sold.
At least then
there might be a chance,
"I could buy him back."