Autumn in the Suburbs

Sometimes I think I'm just a murderer,
obsessed with one season,
stalking the red-gold woods and streets
with gloved hands and an ambition
to stain an oak tree red with blood
and thereby bring balance to creation.

Such absolute beauty
as autumn in the suburbs must
be paid for with a sacrifice.
I learned this holy fact when I was twelve
and hiding in the trees
I saw a man garrotte his love,
and leave it underneath a shroud
of crunchy, fallen leaves.

The lonely October unfurls,
a maid upon her silken bed.
I move among her skirts,
a rat in Eden's flowerbeds.
I twist a length of cord
when streetlights fill
the glistening place of painted doors
and modern cars.

Last year a pretty schoolteacher,
this year a soda jerk. The local McDonald's
will not be fully staffed tomorrow night.
He turns and sees me standing there:
the pleasant bachelor, from No 6;
a teacher, isn't he? he thinks.
The leaves crunching beneath my feet
play out erotic harmonies. I'm never more
turned on than now.

He smiles, feeling safe.