Deny it by daylight, but every night I dreamed I joined them. They seemed to enjoy being in Pennsylvania and strode my front porch in their Cuban black heels, and I did my best to fit in. There were never misgivings or resentment that I was studying Latin or that I was American or that I stood about stiffly during concerts, banging a tambourine against my hip. We were all doomed of course. I never made priest.
Priests take vows that effectively rule out pop stardom.
Neither fantasy, neither priesthood nor Beatlehood, proved corporeal enough to include me in. Seventeen years pass, and the optimism sags. I will listen to his songs all night and all morning, grieving for his murder, and for the smirky murderer who was out there in a dream all his own. Angry that I had to hear the news from Howard Cosell on the Monday Night Football. Fourth down and punt for the Patriots.