Ronald Dzerigian

The Tin Woodsman

It rains madness outside
my little cabin. My dog

is barking at a ghost
as the Chopin record stops.

I begin to eat memories.
I walk out, drift into the creek.

I leave with all the leaves
and ash from brush fires.

I drift down into the basins
where my hunger remains, because

I am tin, weak of heart,
and dumb as rain.