New Prose Poem, I Think: Imps

As Halloween approaches and I stare at the vintage Halloween stuff my sister sent me, and my fun pack of Halloween Tarot cards (the Empress is the Bride of Frankenstein), I'm going to town. Love to my friends up in the San Francisco Bay Area, who do the Night of the Dead lke nobody else.

Imps

Step out
of the elevator
out of the cool blue glass doors
into the night to meet my young coroner, my new date.
Quiet here, downtown, among the offices.
But the red creatures
size of a fingernail
imps
descend
flitting this way, that,
eight of them, no, thirteen.
Always thirteen.
Bits of fire in the black.
Matchsticks.
One of them lights on my nose
a mosqito, orange and chimney red
buzzing
buzzes, "What are you up to?"
I gulp.
"Um . . . nothing. You?"
Now it smiles. I can see it if I cross my eyes.
“What am I up to?” it says.
Wider smile, yellow like salamanders. Soft as a steam kettle.
"Looking for you."
It's time -- time for what, exactly? Time to light the match?