“...[I]n which things are freed from the drudgery of
being useful.”
—The Arcades Project

Deep in the Emerald City,
the flying monkeys laze about
their Lite-Brites, their wings
having atrophied. Have they
gone haywire from a lifetime
oversaturated with color? Or
are they despondent from the total
absence of a father’s affection?
The City blister-glows. Emerald
chamber pots remain unemptied
and dust accrues like a layer
of fireflies. Because there are
no evil angels, the poppies
ringing the city gape, open-
eyed, and cannot sleep.
The plane trees that once
sagged with the responsibility
of lining the golden boulevard
now stand effortlessly into the sky,
swaying without purpose.