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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.
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