I mourn the Sixties,
visions lost in the woods
like Hansel and Gretel,
the ginger house crumbling
like the Colosseum.
Our myths sip Perrier
outside an old shoe,
Snow White has implants,
the Evil Stepmother has esteem issues,
the Three Pigs bunk in a homeless shelter,
the Big Bad Wolf, in touch with his inner Riding Hood
dines on sushi and attends the opera.
But still the children wander
the forest, abandoned.
A woodsman in flannel and dungarees
strikes a tree.
We turn toward the sound.
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