Susan Rothbard
The Emerald City
You’re no Dorothy, but you, too, would like
to go home, as in back to the way things
were before, though there’s no wizard behind
a curtain, no witch chasing you with winged
monkeys, and you keep stepping out of your shoes.
These days tick faster, and nothing fits—no chance
to catch up. And even if you could choose
the scene, would it be bicycling in France,
baguette fresh from the boulangerie strapped
to the basket? Or hearing the Boston Pops
play the score from E.T. live as you watched
the film? Why not push the needle, stop
the record from skipping back? What name
do you fear being called? Who says you can’t fly?