Pumpkin. Spice. Latte.

There’s a storm coming. Can you feel it?

On September 1st, the Pumpkin Spice Latte oracle broke its deafening Twitter silence.

My fingers shook as they traced and retraced the cryptic words on my screen: “OH MY GOURD OH MY GOURD IT’S STARTING!” And with much fear and trembling, my head realized what my heart already dreaded—PSL season was here.

There is no escape. No bargaining. No hope. So I did as my father did before me, and his father before him–and took the pulp of an unblemished pumpkin and used it to scrawl out a poem of tribute and honor to the PSL on my front door. I just pray it will be enough.

Flow over my putrid body like a nutmeggy wave.

Wash me clean of the iniquities of summertime folly.

Harbinger of dead leaves and bones picked clean,

Hold me tight in your frothy pumpkin pie embrace.

Life. Death. Rebirth.

Limited. Time. Offer.

Jack Johnson CD for sale.

Basic as a pack of wide ruled filler,

Be my bridge to the unknown.

Tall. Venti. Grande.

Your secrets are now mine.