Poetry
blog comments powered by DisqusSuperman’s Second Job
I saw Superman on the way to his
second job, working security at
the sports arena. You’d think
that the cape would get him some
respect there but no, the punks
are still punks and the drunks
are still drunks. The superhero
business, I guess, just isn’t
what it used to be - lawsuits
and labor disputes and those
damn illegals doing the work
for a fraction of the cost. It’s
no way for the Man of Steel to
spend his days, patting down
the locals for contraband, paid
minimum wage and a discount at
the gift shop, a tip here or there
if no ones the wiser. And rumor
has it that Batman works the
concession stand every Tuesday
and Saturday night, still on
probation and waiting for his
quarter-an-hour raise.
—eric evans
A Temporary Language
Spring has sprung
and summer night looms,
a glass of lemonade with a bit
of a spike and a black cotton
nightgown, all shoulders and
freckles, a fingertip and the
constellations they’ll create,
the air pushed about by a ceiling
fan, our words cut thin into
syllables to float on down
and onto our backs, mixing
with the new proclamations in
ascent, a temporary language
in a universal tongue, the sound
of time suspended, bodies bound
in amber, translucent and free,
the room a monument to the shape
of all the days’ better things.
—eric evans
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