by Ron Yazinski
Faith is deep here.
Legions of invalids are presented in their wheelchairs–
From the priests pushed by nuns,
To the painted ex-stripper who was hurt in a lap-dance mishap.
It would cost as much to travel to Lourdes,
But here they are assured, at least,
Of rolling to the front of the line at Space Mountain.
Others have brought their infants in strollers
To touch the helm of the characters as they parade by,
Only to hear their screams at the size of Bashful and Doc.
His consoling three-circle presence
Like a Venn diagram is everywhere;
From the stains a coffee cup left on the napkin that bears his image,
To the bruises on the backs of our legs,
Where either the wheelchairs or the strollers hit;
At last, in the night’s climax, amidst dancing waters and lights
He himself appears as the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.
He rises through the lava and fire of his volcano,
As if he is too much for the earth to contain,
And dispatches forever the technological powers of darkness.
In the exodus that follows,
The infirm in their wheelchairs, segways, and jazzis block the exits.
The sleeping children slouch in their strollers or nestle in their fathers’ arms.
And the tired crowd congratulates itself
For leaving its dreaming to professionals.