Just September, and already 
the neighbor’s front-yard blow-up dragon breathes fire 
and reminds me of the elusive costume 
I must procure for my last trick-or-treat 
before I fall off the diving board into 
the rest of my life. In my closet, I find
a frog bucket hat. I could wear the hat, 
or I could be that frog wearing a raspberry 
as a hat, or better yet, an acorn fallen 
from the homegrown oak tree that lost its hat, 
or the yarn needled by two silver synonyms into a hat. 
I could be Yayoi Kusama’s phalli: 
a white bodysuit with red polka dots cut 
from construction paper by second-grade scissors, 
or maybe Vincent van Gogh, blood trickling 
down his ear, the sand from baked earth 
he once painted scraped across my hands. 
A palette knife can snick skin, 
I wonder if that’s how he made his browns 
so vibrant. I could watch all of Hayao Miyazaki’s 
films at once and be them all at once, a blank screen 
with projections flicking across it, 
or I could be wet ramen in a cold cup. 
The feeling when the party's over 
and only weird sad lingerers remain 
to make weird sad jokes and linger. 
Moss. Hair. An ugly shin bruise. 
Whatever you want me to be. 
An oversized blue fur coat 
from Buffalo Exchange on 14th Street. 
The green sign that says 14th Street. 
The hubcap from the side of the road. 
A woman in a bucket barreling over 
Niagara Falls: wonder of the world. 
A full streak on Duolingo. An A+ in calc. 
A waltz in the rain. Dark chocolate 
and hazelnut. Peach fuzz. Opening up 
a narrow-necked San Pelligrino bottle, the fizzing 
crack, or the August fireflies flitting
out of our hands like the neon dreams, 
bright, dissolving in lamplight,
like little snickering kids on Halloween,
toting pillowcases filled with Twix 
ringing doorbells and shortcutting
across front lawns. Let me be them again 
for one more year, 
just one more year.
A costume with lots of ropes 
and ties and zippers, 
a costume that takes time 
to put on and off, 
so I am reminded
to slow down.