And so you chose Emerald City.
Who wouldn’t, really,
with its charming vistas and valleys and all those standalone Starbucks?
Lattés everywhere you turn,
like a giant, dizzying field of poppies?
Here in Kansas,
what can I give you but
barbecues in Auntie Em’s backyard and lemonade stands
and endless, utter devotion?
No contest, really.
I offer stability, you want Technicolor.
Go in peace and no anger from me,
on your way to Emerald City.
(But if I were a different girl,
I would stand on that ridiculous yellow road and call out your name,
scream your name so long and so loud that
I’d scare those silly monkeys right out of the sky, I swear.
I’d point out that Emerald City is just glass, honey, just plain glass and it breaks,
and it’s not me,
so choose me, choose me, choose me.)
But I’m not that girl.
And here in Kansas, the fields need tending,
and I have to go.