Joan Gerstein
Way Over the Rainbow
In July we traveled the yellow brick road,
stifling heat, likes of which we’ve never known.
Lion, with no pride, sweat as we schlepped amid
shriveled apple orchards, parched poppy crops.
Scarecrow, not the sharpest scythe in the field,
feared spontaneous combustion. Oh, my!
Munchkins, clothes clinging on soggy skin, hid
as a rusty Tin Man creaked, his oil can empty.
Toto yelped to be toted as we trudged.
My feet were inflamed from ruby red slippers,
my dress, shredded limp from monkey claws.
Now, September, we reach the Imperial Palace
to meet the most popular, all-powerful wizard.
We enter through a back gate to find the place
a pig sty: fast food wrappers, torn up documents
strewn amidst piles of red hats and 23 boxes
of government files. The wiz appears in a smoke
screen with his lawyers, dismisses our requests.
He has Tin Man removed due to his silver skin
and kicks out Lion, saying that there’s only room
for one king in this jungle. “You’re dumb as dirt
but loyal,” he tells Scarecrow, “You can be
my sentry.” He gives me his million dollar smile,
“Return tonight after you get rid of these losers.
You can sign an NDA and be my apprentice.”
