The Ineffective Scarecrow

Perhaps he is sick of being a scarecrow As I sometimes ache to be anything other than me Now that I'm all dried up, like a squeezed orange Like a swan on tenterhooks Treading a path between broken dreams and ashes The scarecrow wants to go back to being a stick No more predators, loneliness, crows With their constant cawing He is sick of being a warning in the wind He is sick of being one foot stuck in the dark He dreams of being a spoke in St. Catherine's wheel A moment of burning glory, then adieu Of being a broom in Hitler's final bunker Sweeping aside the bullets and swastikas