An Ode to Donald Glover
Dear Donald,
hello, hi, Mr. Glover, sorry.
When we first met
across the television set,
you made me laugh with
silly beatboxes and Spanish phrases -
“Dónde está la biblioteca
La araña discoteca.”
When we sat across each other
at the local fast food restaurant
and you jumped on the table,
my heart fluttered.
I couldn’t stop watching you.
Sober eyes never closing
for fear of missing
your floating, possessed dance
arms and legs, wrapping my mind
rendering it useless.
Where Da Vinci was
Man of the Renaissance,
You Sir, are the Renaissance Man
that has captured
my pathetic self prisoner.
But I am a willing participant
a slave for you, a devout follower
to your holiness, your godliness
ever since you opened
the heavenly gates of Atlanta.
A young boy that simply desired
a brand name shirt
to fit in amongst his peers
to be noticed and respected.
When I saw that,
when I related to that,
related to you
I realized you had bridged
the gap between human and god,
the gap between you and myself.
I never felt so close to you.
But so close is too close.
You are the sun
and with blind devotion
I sacrifice myself
to melt and waste away
for the mere chance
to touch your skin
to feel it
to wear it
to be you
because, Mr. Glover, Sir,
your most holy high -
your greatness is so great
and I fail to be worthy.
