Waiting for the Skeleton Man

I don’t know what squirrleymojo is.
Sometimes I think I see her in the mirror,
but then she flashes that horrid grin
and evaporates.
When the rain is coming down outside the french doors
and the leaves are all yellow outside,
I think I sense her presence in the air,
but then it’s just rotted deer meat
from in the woods out back.
I hear they are talking about
closing down that old school with the teal windows
and aluminum screens,
but I like the brick and the way it crumbles.
Besides,
I have a secret path I follow
to the old playground
where Jill swung on the monkey bars
and twisted her ankle into pennies, nickles, and dimes.
I can’t look back.
The colors are all muted by the grey
that rolls in, scratchy branches reach for the sky
and I simply don’t know.
I don’t know.
There’s isn’t a bushy tail or a tell tale “Caw!”
That lets me know when squirrleymojo-jo
will arrive and tap out key letters and phrases