Letter to Lois

It’s nice to hear you’re doing well
and no longer in need of Superman. The cleaners lost my cape, my tights no longer fit, and I gave up flying ten years back.

The buildings I used to leap? Well, now they all have elevators, and they draw so much less attention. I’m sure you understand.

It’s nice to no longer need a phone booth, such a relief
to not have to keep changing.
The glasses I once wore to disguise myself as me have become a necessity when I read.

I stored away the S. I’m more of a t-shirt and blue jeans guy these days. That draws less attention, too, as you might guess.

It’s nice to relax, slow down, and forget about the speeding bullet for a while. Why were we always in such a hurry? We never just walked and really talked to one another.

Let’s meet somewhere quiet, somewhere far, far and away from the scene of the disaster and all that commotion. That way, we’ll draw way less attention, don’t you think?

Tavern in a Small Missouri Town

imageThey perch, in brown boots and blue jeans,  like cats sitting on fence posts, each one atop his bar stool, each one gazing at the Magnavox above the fading cartoon bear.

The bear is spending his day like he does every other: telling anyone whose eyes he meets about the sky blue waters of Hamm’s.

The sun’s heat slips through the screen door, looks to see if there’s anyone it knows, then settles into the familiar embrace of the slowly turning fan blades before drifting off to sleep.

“Humm,” says the fan motor as a cue ball gently kisses a seven and sends it on its way to work. The quarters are lined up near the right front pocket, quietly watching, waiting for their turn.

Everyone knows where this is headed. Keep your eyes on the tv and your hand around your beer. We’re all in this ’til closing time. Someone man the phone.