He hid himself in order to be found.
It was the way to be the common fellow:
To place himself, with newspapers or cello,
Camera on his outline in the round.
He always wanted to be Cary Grant,
Cavalier, dashing: instead the everyman
On daily errands, while listening in,
Commenting on what his own movie meant.
Knowledge, for him, was a movie’s greatest power.
Cue in The Alfred Hitchcock TV hour,
And then he couldn’t hide as he would choose,
Making a long transition into ruse.
Eventually, he realized his pitch:
Of having both the known and unknown Hitch.
Oh, Mother, how to live without you here—
The birds all stuffed to hold a single pose,
And no one stopping by. I’m lonely, dear,
Rocking with the guilt a mother knows,
And rocking with the guilt of her one son.
Some women go to far; they tempt us all.
They should be petrified, but have a will.
You disapprove. You cut away the sin,
And when you run the shower, it’s all done.
The anger comes, then leaves, just like the blood
That covers everything with what’s inside,
And so you work, and everything is clean.
I’m lonely, Mother. Sometimes when I cry,
Your hand will settle briefly, like a fly.
—Kim Bridgford, Philadelphia, PA