Nov. 11, 2013
I don’t know which of them I am, if any,
The heartless man of tin, the brainless man of straw,
Or the lion lacking courage.
And is she the good witch or bad,
And do I ach for her broom stick or wand,
Or want her to make use of mine,
This late after the love and ache remains less
A scar than an unhealed wound and unfulfilled fantasy,
I keep locked up in the back of my head,
Knowing it can ever be real regardless of how hard
Or how often I click my heads or how many promises
The wizard makes – maybe all three at once,
Accompanying her down that long, twisted and dangerous
Yellow brick road, wary of flying monkeys when
She should be wary of me, this dream from which I ultimately
Wind up back in Kansas, still aching
Still wishing I was not.
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