Fairy Tales, Myth, And Magic

Snow White, after menopause,

her prince, pot-bellied and bald,

unable to mount with a single bound his bed

let alone sit and ride a muscled horse,

sleep in separate rooms,

somehow the magic gone.

Dopey and the others, residents of an old dwarf's home,

lost the mine, the house, their wealth

defending themselves against a charge

of child abuse and false imprisonment

filed some years back by a woman

working, part-time, for the state.

The gingerbread house just down the lane

has take-out now and a drive-through window,

Mother Hubbard's fighting foster care,

the yellow brick road is under repair,

Scarecrow and Tin Man have been recycled,

and Brave Heart Lion is interred at the San Diego Zoo.

My caped heroes are revealed

as perverts practicing profiling,

are under duress from an adverse press,

and have been taken to court

by the ACLU

in defense of my liberties.

I look at centerfolds,

all sisters, full-hipped,

shaven clean, with breasts

which when swung above a head

could be considered lethal weapons,

and find all the magic and the wonder gone.

But a bowl of oatmeal,

hot and steaming,

with raisins and

syrup from Vermont,

on a cold morning

still works magic,

as do you when warm,

and smelling of the night,

you turn upon awakening

and press your hips

into the pocket formed

by my hips and thighs.

Learn more about this author, Jim Curtis.
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