Dorothy

I am feeling like a golden brick when the dust rolls in.
Look, there I am, that pouting lump of doldrums
with sweat sheened up platinum on my cheeks.
Oh yes, that is me, sitting pretty in a wig of hair
I blame for braiding itself so messily.
Hey cutie, says a worm in the dirt.
Just smile for me, says the broad-shouldered
stone I’ve spent all morning pulling faces at.
I weep down at my million-buck fingernails,
dreaming I had gold teeth
and a grill to sizzle and gnash at them.
By the time it all starts to go sepia,
my tears are looking like butter and delicious
and the crows are landing on me with their tongues out like
Oh, delicious, or, Job well done, sucker.
Look closely and they are cat’s tongues,
little pin-hooked rugs. Suddenly the sky is a rug
getting the dust beat out of it.
Do birds even have tongues?
Trees coughing in the unexpected grit of it.
Would I dream such a thing?
“No, you shining hick,” hacks an apple-cheeked
old bole. The dust is so thick now that the termites
have pulled up in their rusted bandwagon.
Field mice are throwing handfuls
and building tiaraed sculptures of themselves.