I am frozen. Like a Tin Woodcutter
without oil after the monsoons.
I wait. Like a Scarecrow wanting to disturb
the debates of philosopher kings.
I weep. Like a Lion whose mask
of assurance fell off before dinner.
I have never been to Kansas, but I
know I won’t be able to go back home.
I hear the marching soldiers. I see
the torches. I feel the pitchfork prongs.
The Emerald City lies in dust.
My joints, locked with rust, refuse to move.
My mouth “ohs” at the coming train wreck.
I stand and watch in horror.
In my hollow chest, an old clock
whispers, trying to wake me,
asking me to take a stand, here.
©2019, Michael Dickel