This is no place for autumn
and the pumpkins wonder how they got to this patch
in this lot, in this city.
They’re wincing at the weather, looking up my skirt,
making orange a kind of festive
and not like the sun at all
making orange a kind of festive
and not like the sun at all
until we go home; if at home there’s a man named Lucky
then at home there’s a man named Lucky.
then at home there’s a man named Lucky.
