Poetry best served cold

From Greg Ames, via Tracey. One wonders how it happened...

A boy has dreams.
His heroes are tall,
his ideals are noble.
Most people get this about boys,
having been (or been near) one in times past.

Parents tread softly around boys' dreams,
even when their boy is weird.

This boy's dream shaped his world.
He was a serious, crusty six-year-old,
wore button-down shirts with rolled-up sleeves,
and he refused to have spunk.

His parents found him one April morning
with the electric razor,
trying to give himself male-pattern baldness.
Good parents tread softly around boys' dreams,
but this was much.

They took him out to see the show.
He didn't even mind
that his hero turned out to be short
and irascible.
He waited, reporter's steno book in hand,
an index card with "Press" in crayon
taped to his Twins cap.

"Mr. Grant, sir?"

It could have been pressure from rewrites,
it could have been the crowds.
It could have been that he broke into a take
that they'd tried eleven times.
It could have been how they all went "awww"
or the grin from Gavin MacLeod.
But Lou Grant hissed, "Not now, kid,"
and sent him on his way.

That night
the boy burned his homemade press pass in the backyard grill
and swore an oath over the ashes:
"I'll get you for this, Ed Asner."