by Charles Southerland
When evening comes, his alter ego blooms.
He stews about the evil that surrounds
the neighborhood, the soulless hatch from wombs
attuned to such debauchery. He pounds
both fists against his head to tenderize
his mind. Why does it have to be this way?
No cape can cover all of it. He flies
against the night and lands amidst the fray.
When morning comes, there is some pain, a cut,
contusions, a bullet wound, bloody sheets,
the ever present migraine headache, but
no memory of the night just passed, his feats.
There’s flab, gray hair— he’s become a softie.
Lois asks, “Clark, want a cup of coffee?”