It is Saturday afternoon

I believed
so hard that I fought them all off
bitterly
when they wanted me to think
there was no Santa Claus

I believed
clapping so hard for Mary Martin
in black and white
saving Tinkerbell from the evil
silken and silly machinations
of Cyril Ritchard

I believed
a lot of things
and sitting here at 45 I wonder
if Santa Claus and Mary Martin
Cyril Ritchard and a smartassed sprite
might get me through another day or two

I am in a quiet place
alone as can be
and since I can’t figure out where the light switch is
the lighting is sporadic
my corner dark

A load of dull stuff facing me
on a generously sized screen
just so I won’t be accused of holding up
progress or a process
I believe
in spite of an insidious strain
playing and preying on my boring
ancient insecurity

I don’t want to finish
or go downtown
I don’t want to take children
to a movie or anywhere
and I know none of it matters
but I believe

In something none of them suspects
someone only known to me
although everyone thinks they know
it all

Writing from a darkened corner
take your lights and dance in them
if it’s what you feel like doing
I don’t
not now
I want to take my raw and vulnerable
believing self
and hide away

Only Cyril Ritchard in black and white
will ever find me here