Poetry Friday, Guessard Whoigan?

After Halloween Slump

My magic is down.
My spells mope around
the house like sick old dogs
with bloodshot eyes
watering cold wet noses.

My charms are in a pile
in the corner like the
dirty shirts of a summer fatman.

One of my potions died
last night in a pot.
It looks like a cracked
Egyptian tablecloth.