Richard Bronson

I Have Come to Know The melancholy of Monday morning roads Leading toward the incarceration of offices, The anvil of their hours. And I know the sadness of blue evenings As dusk passes into twilight, Street lamps switching on - Illuminating the long way home. I know the dark solemnity Of empty houses awaiting their occupants, And the sorrow of autos That carry solitary drivers Alone on night highways, Each at the end of days. Search for Oz The wicked witch   flew out of the West, On 57th Street. She screamed Leave this fucking place! I said tell me   where is the wizard? Follow the yellow brick road!. I wandered past shattered windows   of Tiffany and Takashimaya. The burnt-out hulk of St.Patrick's,    still smoldered. An organ played in the emptiness. Tin man stared at me near Saks,   but where was the cowardly lion? The Rockefeller Center tree still stood,   but all its lights were dark. I took shelter as dogs howled down the Avenue. At 42nd and Fifth, a sign - Munchkins running toward Bryant Park. White tents with red crosses Billowed in the breeze,   like great wings of a condor. They were empty. Had an urge for a smoke   at Nat Sherman's. Didn't remove my mask. Someone cried   try the reading room of the Library. Was it a lie? I walked up the steps,   two at a time, past crouching lions. They were made of stone. The doors locked shut,   I gained no entry. The witch flew by. Said Follow the yellow brick road,   but all the streets were dark. I thought   yellow is the color of gold. Looked south, toward Wall Street. All I saw was empty sky. (c) 2002 Richard Bronson