Scarecrow
How’s it look? I ask,
slipping my arms into the sleeves
of the scarecrow’s battered coat.
Good, she says,
but I already know the truth,
and by portentous coincidence,
the sky has just turned the same
disquieting shade of gray
as various diseases of the mind.
I hold my arms out like so
and assume the somber expression,
including opalescent eyes,
of someone remembering something
he wished he didn’t,
children overtaken on the road
by claw-footed shadows,
regardless of ancient promises
and the shrill little cries of the sun.
How’s it look? I ask,
slipping my arms into the sleeves
of the scarecrow’s battered coat.
Good, she says,
but I already know the truth,
and by portentous coincidence,
the sky has just turned the same
disquieting shade of gray
as various diseases of the mind.
I hold my arms out like so
and assume the somber expression,
including opalescent eyes,
of someone remembering something
he wished he didn’t,
children overtaken on the road
by claw-footed shadows,
regardless of ancient promises
and the shrill little cries of the sun.