At the Pumpkin Patch

Rows and rows of pumpkin heads

All sleep on vines in farmers’ beds.

I wander through the orange sea

To pick a pumpkin just for me.

“Now, this one has a bumpy chin —

Perfect for a witch’s grin.

Those lumpy ones are shaped just fine.

Maybe I’ll carve Frankenstein.

I like that sunken pumpkin there.

He’s a zombie without hair!”

So many pumpkins to pick through.

The perfect ones, I’ll leave for you.