Devil’s Night at the Pub

reflection on a yearly tradition

Photo by Nathan Anderson on Unsplash

We sip our PBR with lace covered fingers:

we’re mirror images in solid black and velvet.

Earlier, a coworker told me that

it’s not a costume if you simply exaggerate

the everyday- stating that folklore must reign tonight.

Remember when we were kids? How scared

we were of Bloody Murder and Candyman?

A thousand campfire stories float through

my altered state of mind, the only thing

I can think of is I still can’t watch “The Ring”.

Beverly’s friend called after the Rings for a good laugh.

Seven Days the creepy voice said, and years later,

I hate wells: the image of wells, running from actual wells.

We order another round, contemplating superstitions

Fear is sublime, it’s the closest we can get to death without dying.