I have Fred Rogers
on my phone.

When I turn it on,
there he is,
in his red zip cardigan
and gray flannel slacks.

When I get a call,
he answers,
in his black dress socks,
a work shoe in one hand
a faded blue deck shoe
with white laces
beside him,
ready for today's visit
to the Neighborhood
of Make-Believe.

People wonder
about that
when they see him.

Is he there
because I need
a little magic in my life?

Because I need
to retreat
to a place that feels safe?

Because he brings
order
with his precision
and his pace
and his routine
and his place for everything
and everything
in its place?

Or do I think
that perhaps
he ups my irony cred
on the mean streets
of Hipsterville?

What is he doing there?

Yes, I say.
Yes and yes
and, alas,
yet again,
yes.

But mostly,
what he is doing there
is smiling.

xxx
c