She rises,
witch hair untamed,
melted-candle neck
sagging southward,
eyes resigned to
Whatever the Day
Shall Bring.
Walking down the hall,
she remembers a tune:
"With her Head tucked
underneath her arm."
That could work.
The morning self-appraisal.
O.M.G.
But, in this instance,
The Cackle is
right on time.
She is all ready
for Hallowe'en,
simply by rising.
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