Another one has ended, it is gone;
but Disney lives, for sure, in all his fantasy,
like mom did staring at the screen
with little boy, and he never asked.
Decades beyond the time of the little guy,
bent in her soul with the worries of days,
she smiled the honest happy of her heart
Mickey sang for her, Pluto danced, she laughed.
Then she was real, little girl at five and O,
when Goofy messed up again, and Minnie cried.
After the field was cleaned, and the oven hot
she sat, she giggled, she loved, connected.
Bugs gnawed at the orange sick, and she looked
to Little Legs, her boy, her love, her creation;
and they worked, accomplices through the seasons,
the rain, the ice, the snow, the dark even.
Never ever, never again, never too often
beyond the glass of juice, the gift of crepes,
and beignets; she loved like no one else knew
at noon on Sundays, when Walt stopped by.
Her blood was hot, her life made sense
behind the rolling pin, she baked, and made
the desserts that never die in memories of boys,
between a sling shot, a broken doll, and a puppy.
So it is done, for now, between three sixty-five.
Disney plays today, tomorrow and again,
for her, for the little guy, for love and two beignets,
while no one else knew, not until now.
Bio:
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.