Mourning the Sixties
by Kenneth Wanamaker

    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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