All Saints

What separates me
From the grown men & women
Who dress up each year?—

The bloody vampires,
& space aliens who get
Plastered & return 

To their workaday
Selves come November 01?
I sit across from 

Them on the train home,
I see them smile ghoulishly
& make a promise

To myself that next
Year, I’ll do it—I’ll get dressed
Up, put on war paint, 

Drink hard & land on
My ass before morning dawns.
Then another year

Comes & goes & I’m
Dead asleep by midnight.
I guess you might say 

I’m different year
Round, can’t be bothered finding
New ways to vanish.