When he first went there,

some years ago,

he was a VIP,

big black cars picked him up,

whisked away his bags,

took him to the airport,

drove him to the park.

He had a VIP card,

he was greeted by unctuous

men in suits and badges,

he never waited on a line,

or for a table,

or missed a ride,

Mickey came out to meet him,

and his daughter, they spent time

together backstage, his magic passes,

opened every secret door,

walked through unseen tunnels,

hidden walkways.

Now, he is not a VIP,

those days behind him,

he has learned to wait the lines,

plead for tables,

remember to be humble,

bargain for his passes

hauled his big black back through endless lobbies,

at the end of each long day,

he leans against his lover,

for support, his feet are unhappy

with his status.

He is learning, learning,

the art of walking with blisters,

and fending off the sunburn,

and sweating in his heavy shirt,

and sore feet,

and the curious sting,

of being turned away.

How sweet is the taste of life,

when you really drink from it’s cup.