Tin Dot.

Mostly I am
or feel like the
Tin Man. Heartless
and brave, and wanting
so much.

Occasionally
in an argument, I become
the Scarecrow by a work
of your art.

I do confess it: a touch!
A touch.

I don't really go in
for Lion, so much.
Not so much a Cat!
But I'm kind of
Chesire.

Perhaps ultimately
I'm Dot. Just Dot, with
a big wicker picnic basket
(no Toto, but probably some
kind of dog inside), sweetly,
naively unafraid of fire, coolly
or coyly advising the lot:

Pay no attention
to the curtain behind
the man, or the halo of
light he glares within.

It's only a spot.
Just a spot of light.
Not so bright as the sun
when the clouds come in.