I’ve kept a tiny furry freak
Inside a sack for years. The week
Of March the 17th is when
I feed it, then it goes back in.
It’s angry almost every year
(Which isn’t shocking). When I peer
Inside the sack at Hallowe’en
It’s scarlet where it isn’t green.
I sometimes feel a touch of shame,
But face it, you’d have done the same
In my position. Once, it said
That if I let it go, I’m dead!
I don’t know why it’s in the sack
But it’s too late to take it back.
The die–why won’t it die?–is cast.
We both are victims of my past.