In my dream last night I imagined
that the childish autocratic buffoon
had suddenly died, but I couldn’t
feel compassion or anger or joy.
Instead I was visited by Arlen
and Harburg’s Ding Dong
the Witch Is Dead, and once it
arrived it refused to leave.
I walked to the mirror and saw
a hundred munchkins with my face
all singing, arms interlocked, all
with shit-eating grins on their faces.
And I, I knew, was equal parts Bert
Lahr and Jack Haley, looking for
the heart and courage to be sad
at his death and joyous at his departure.