The Month That Walks

There's no way to purchase a ticket to October.

You stumble upon it while driving down a street
that isn't on the map until
September closes up shop.

All the leaves lying on the ground are slick
and smell like rust. It's almost dark out, and the porches
are all lit up, ready for dinner. They shine bright,
as if they want to keep the day alive.

The leaves aren't rustling. They're whispering
something you don't understand.

In the far-off distance, you'll see a fire smoldering.
You can walk towards that or walk through the woods.
There's always another trail somewhere.
Either will take you to that house,
the house you shouldn't be knocking on.
It will open its door when your hand comes near it.

The fog in the valley will not dissipate.
It's as if something is breathing from it.

Travel with a light pack.
There will always be a place to sleep.
But those doors will not take you
to the same rooms.