Like any fairy tale worth its salt,
There was the requisite number of white knights and villains,
Though the latter somehow sanitized, even redeemed
As if the wolf had nothing more devious in mind
Than chewing a few loose threads off Little Red’s shawl.
In any case, there will be a time for discussion and considerations
Of overnight ratings and currency fluctuations,
Revenue streams and luxury-box occupancy—but not today,
For this is a day for those dreams born of driveways and ponds,
To shout those words we had so long dared not give voice to,
A day for the streets to be strewn with any number of glass slippers.
And, should someone ask me in their best Al Michaels-esque cadences,
If I believe in miracles, I will say, wearing the long-dormant smile
Of a six-year-old on Christmas Day, Yes, I do. Very much, indeed, I do.