New road, same yellow brick.
NBC reboots the Wiz, and I’m obligated
to don my silver sneakers for the journey,
true to the page, the metal sparkle
still surprising ruby lovers, to my delight.
In another country, they sweep up glass,
sprinkle absorbent over ruby puddles.
In my country, the local sheriff reminds
would-be vigilantes of their wildest dreams,
of the reason they got pistol permits
in the first place.
Red Ryder notwithstanding,
they’re probably better shots than many on the force,
because hobby equals passion,
because their targets are innocent paper outlines,
They aim to please.
The weather is unusually mild, and my
winter coat lingers a month in the back seat
of my car, too heavy for this Christmas bloom.
Poinsettias have no trouble thriving,
their red leaves directing our attention
to grey skies, second day patches of pollen.
Piles of gifts explode on our dining table
where we rarely eat, even when it’s empty.
New Santa hat, red with ivory trim,
lays at the ready, waiting for stars
to crystallize, for snow
to move the year along.