Bowl

Last year they caught him unready: three small witches on the landing, and all he had was a lemon and the end of a loaf.

This year he bought the bag on Tuesday, the cheap mixed kind, and hid it from himself above the fridge.

Tonight it sits in the good bowl on the shoe cabinet by the door. He has eaten four. He has left the hall light on so the glass in the door says someone's home.

Rain in the courtyard. The lift goes up past his floor twice, not stopping.

At half past seven, the bell. One witch this time, taller, her mother two steps down the stairs saying just one, saying thank you,

and the girl, looking past him into the flat, asking where he keeps the lemon.