I'm not going to talk much about it. It's a poem that makes you rethink a familiar story.
Saint Marty is ready for rest now.
Lois liked to see the bullets bounce
off Superman's chest, and of course
she was proud when he leaned into
a locomotive and saved the crippled
orphan who had fallen on the tracks.
Yet on those long nights when he was
readjusting longitude or destroying
a meteor headed right for some nun,
Lois considered carrying just a smidgen
of kryptonite in her purse or at least
making a tincture to dab behind her ears.
She pictured his knees giving way,
the color draining from his cheeks.
He'd lie on the couch like a guy with
the flu, too weak to paint the front
porch or take out the garbage. She
cold peek down his tights or draw
on his cheek with a ball point. She
might even muss his hair and slap
"Hey, what'd I do?" he'd croak just
like a regular boyfriend. At last.