TO PETER PAN
When I was ten (back when the
Sunday-School purpose-of-life was
never to tell a lie and to think only
pure thoughts) I could never dig what
Popeye saw in librarian-plain Olive Oyl…
What was keeping me up nights was
the little independent movie theater
in my head featuring all those jailbait
Disney girls of Peter Pan, those Mermaids
of Marooner's Rock, the real reason for
flying into Neverland for the weekend…
always scantily-clad and happy to see you,
the Island Girls' Welcoming and Entertainment
Committee for lost boys looking for a bit of
R-and-R… sweet, petite Tinkerbell, pouty and
deliciously jealous in that hot little jungle-green
number, and those legs… Mr. Disney, what were
you thinking? I might not choose to swing on a
star but hey, carry ‘moonbeams’ home in a jar…
back to my room...? And of course Wendy, my first
pin-up, gliding around night and day in little more
than her modest and sexy powder-blue nightgown
and slippers… more than willing to play house,
darn your socks, sew your shadow back on…
Oh how I envied that lucky Peter...
