Small Chocolates

The year Nicky didn't plan
was the year they gathered on his avenue.
He'd just stepped in the door,
retrieving both morning & afternoon papers.
He rifled through the mailbox...
plucked a men's sporting catalogue & utility bills.
And a holiday card from an old friend.

The nightlight was still on in the kitchen,
appropriate once more.
Somewhere through the baseboards
the oil tank clacked a metronome symphony.
Warm, mechanical heat fingered Nicky's cheeks.
The air outside was aqua-marine...
a damp vibrant chill.
It was good to be shunted inside.

Through the east-facing windows he could just see,
the work truck's overhead rack angled beneath the street light
and...
and...

A group of teenagers,
dark-skinned & dressed like pirates;
or Red Sox players--
there was Manny w/ his rastafarian dreds
& Youkillas w/ a pinched bald cap & chin-beard.
The mass of them passed the truck,
ascending the drive.
The doorbell rang & their impatient voices
pressed him into action.

There was a left-over bag of soft chocolate.
He tore open the top
and poured the black, thoughtless contents
into a cooking bowl.
He unlocked the massive front door
& awkwardly pushed ajar the stormfront.
"It's unwrapped!" they glared
through their eyepatches & beneath their ball caps.
"Happy Halloween, kids!" & he distributed the bits
& pieces.

There were a few ant-sized scatterings left when
the next group arrived.
And none after that.
He picked out some oranges & an odd banana
but the results were disasterous:
"What the f**k, man?" one silhouetted youth intoned
(he was the size & age of a college freshman).
"You suck!" they yelled as they trampled off...
The banana missing Nicky by centimeters.

Nicky shut out the outside lights
the inside ones too.
He watched a movie on his laptop in the bedroom,
the volume low & the window sill down.
He muched his Chinese food,
now puddled in soy sauce & mustard.
But there were more of them when he peeked out,
some returning shapes & outfits...
but some less clear.
A caveman?
A gorilla? King Kong?
Something more ancient?
They drank beers under the street light
& their oaths found their direction,
shouts fell upon shingles...
curses lit the lawn.

It was only 8 o'clock when they found their collective nerve,
something scratched the front door.
And there were footsteps out back.
An egg yolk exploded against glass
and threats were written in shaving cream
upon the cement drive.

Nicky cell-phoned the police but it was too late.
Someone was in the house.

A heavy centipede tred thudded up the cellar steps.
A radio spattered rap music.
A silver-chained fist fired the 1st shot.
A gang entered the last abode.