Elegy for Mister Rogers
2006; Johns Hopkins University Press; Volume: 29; Issue: 3 Linguagem: Inglês
10.1353/cal.2006.0137
ISSN1080-6512
Autores Tópico(s)Music History and Culture
ResumoElegy for Mister Rogers:—In memory of Fred Rogers Curtis Crisler (bio) Fred came daily, met me at sofa—we played on train tracks with tigers, lions, and mailmen. His smile, an infection—a disease for the better. A white man slumming in a black boy's never- never, lands softly. Life: was Fred. He gave me songs, colors, words—friends to wake up to. Now, I wake to ghost—red sweater—hate that his voice roams new boulevards. I cannot boss this spinning top in me whirling like so many for reparations of hope—a bronze of lost pennies adding up for high-life tomorrows. Fred is dead. The rappers aren't spitting any verses, knowing they all grew up with "It's such a good feeling to know you're alive" as a backbeat, before Run DMC, Eric B. and Rakim, Tupac and Biggy. He's without me to smile back at him this time, to say, "Hi neighbor. It is such a good feeling." Why should it surprise, upset me—an anchor kills scavengers when it hits; heads turn away at 6 and 10 time slots. Fred kicked it with me, loved to "rock the ave." A rot in me bubbles. It's winter, now— a Philly blizzard, no move. "Mister Rogers? Mister Rogers?" No one's singing. The jazz waits, antsy in empty studio. The piano looks for bits [End Page 803] of keys to work—for crescendo, a crumb. Trains derail in Illinois, Kentucky, and in Maine to ticker- tape him—no time slot for his majesty—just hard- core PBS burning a soft valid voice on celluloid. Curtis Crisler Curtis L. Crisler, a lecturer at Indiana Purdue Fort Wayne, has published The Ringing Ear, L'intrigue, The Fourth River, Only the Sea Keeps: Poetry of the Tsumani, and other periodicals and anthologies. Copyright © 2006 Charles H. Rowell
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