growing up to be pencil-straight,
i was glad that mr. rogers
was my first gay role model.
the way the predictable rustling
of his bunny footfalls
announced his arrival, him entering
with a look that let you know
that he more than owned the place.
quick metamorphosis of wardrobe,
from sturdy jacket to trusty sweater,
taught me to value change
before i knew any better.
a thin curtain of ebony hair
sprawled across a head full of exertion.
my parents had no idea mr. rogers was gay,
and they were worse off for it.
every day, they sat me before that square blinking box,
locked me into an escape pod
with a plate of gingersnaps
and a lukewarm glass of milk.
mr. rogers used to sing me awake, and croon me to sleep.
mr. rogers worked hard for me, with his a-b-c
one two three knowledge is free
or at least it was
before public programming
became good corporate propaganda.
i bet he could have even taught me how to ski, because mr. rogers believed in me.
i had no idea mr. rogers was gay, as my father would remark, we must bow down
and pray. pray for mr. rogers
to not be gay if only he knew
if only mr. rogers could say.
