the path to Sara's door
stretches harsh like the Long Green Mile.
She waits for a man
with big hands and feet
and death in his eyes to walk
along it and and find her.
Indiana Jones or The Lone Ranger--
even Frodo would do.
Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty
were found by a Prince.
Why not her, too, she reasons.
Jones and his whip were captured by an S&M freak.
The masked man now lives in a nursing home.
Frodo came out of the closet years ago,
passing the gold ring on to Darth Vador.
Sara's glass slipper has been dropped
too many times
and the only Prince she's ever seen
was mobbed in his doo-rag at the Superbowl.
Still, she lowers her braids
over the windowsill every night, hopes
the Big Bad Wolf doesn't show, instead.
She hears him pant as he prowls
through the weeds,
tongue hanging out
dreams circling high over his head
about his own kind of storybook ending.