The strange man at the park
has built himself and army
of gourds and pumpkins
and a very regal-looking squash.
He has drawn faces on each
with a Sharpie pen, because only that type of pen
will glide smooth enough
over the placid, waxy surfaces.
He sits in the park
surrounded by the globular faces
all grimacing with missing teeth
vampire fangs, hairlips
himself the lone toothpaste-worthy smile
I wonder what his name is.
