Which way?

a poem

My guardians look askance —
Dorothy with her basket full of Toto,
the Blessed Virgin Mary
in prayerful pose.

Their reluctance,
their cool dismissal,
have me gnashing
for a bit of insight.

Maybe a traffic light,
perhaps a road sign,
a few orange cones,
or a well‑placed arrow.

It’s a tripping, muddy slog —
boots swallowed,
good intentions
tattering into rags.

Stranded like the scarecrow
on the crossroads,
tilted by the wind,
yearning for Oz

or even Bethlehem, PA.