Downtime in Oz

He sprawled about the floor,
most of him at any rate,
what he liked to really think of
as himself was actually
sitting on the mantle,
surveying the scene through
his mismatched deep blue eyes,

By the door, small night yips
punctuated the dreams of a
small, curly-haired, stumbling
block in the path of any would-be
robbers, evil witches, or
those damn flying monkeys.

She was on the couch,
gingham dress neatly
folded along the back,
spooned together with
the walking throw rug,
keeping the crybaby safe through
the night and softly
moaning at the subtle
attentions of nickel-plated
fingers rubbing themselves
in slow circles over all
the places that made her
so glad she'd gone home
long enough
to grow up.

As he watched, he considered
what was next, and tried his
best to ignore the fluttering
of feathers outside
the shuttered windows,
but it would have to be dealt with
eventually.

Murders just seemed to follow him about.

He always was such a horrible
scarecrow.