the demographic keeps changing.
before on halloween it was the 17-year-olds,
in their parents' camaros or minivans (it doesn't matter which, as long as it has wheels),
with toilet paper they bought with their paychecks
hard earned from washing floors at the 7-eleven,
inflicting their harmless wrath on this old mr. wilson's lawn or that.
now we have 13-year-olds trying the same thing-
minus the cars usually-
and soon we'll have 9-year-olds equipped with toilet paper
in their spongebob squarepants candy bags,
ready to deface a tree or porch at a moment's notice.
fine.
they can have halloween.
tonight is Christmas eve- or early christmas morning- and we're in mrs. thompson's front yard.
we did the trees, now the porch.
i walk up the steps. if she sees me or comes to the door
well,
i'll just pretend i'm here to see her.
i break the seal and unravel the brandless ultra-quilted, chafing-guaranteed toilet paper.
i reach up to loop it around the trellis that surrounds the uppermost part of her porch.
there's a light on in her livingroom, and i pause ...
to look in.
she's alone in front of her television
It's a Wonderful Life plays doubly across the screen and the window.
i look away, and see billy conally watching me through icy paynes from the adjacent house,
7 years old and yet disapproving
as if he knows something i don't.
