Everyone needs a bit of kindness
to unwrap and bite into, and someone
once said that if they ask, it shall be given,
so I give chocolate to the inflatable T-Rex

appearing at my door, along with six skeletons,
assorted princesses and ninjas, and black-clad
teen boys wearing open backpacks on their
chests, their loot winking like treasure.

Before all the hubbub began, I walked
across the street carrying three small
chocolate bars to give to a young neighbor
named Johann, who correctly identified

the common letters in both our names,
then, smiling, held up a mint green kids’
camera, politely asking, “Can I take
your picture?” And when I agreed,

he pushed the button to elicit a Polaroid’s
familiar zzzzzt. Though I was standing
in the doorway, backlit, and I knew
the exposure would be wonky,

we watched the photo develop—Johann,
his sister Hannah in their father’s arms,
and me, the old lady across the street.
“Magic,” Johann pronounced.

And, as we studied the little rectangle
that gradually revealed a pink-shirted
woman wearing a gauzy halo—
a costume I had not planned on—

I could not disagree.