Superman's ghost

the total eclipse
as i walked home with a friend
discussing the virtues of obsession
was a tea party surprise.

it rushed towards us like an
earthquake wave in six dimensions;
like a confusing New York Times
headline in bold neon letters
being broadcast from the rooftop of
a Manhattan high rise on halloween night,
showering pale orange confetti slowly falling
onto the masked gobblins scurrrying far below,
past radiation detectors and their own
fading high school memories of acne and
heartache.

the cute little girl from
Delaware who dressed as a witch,
once upon a time,
maybe with Alice in Wonderland,
maybe with Sarah in la la land,
said never to masturbate
in public with your pants pulled down,
especially with a smile on your face
in the magazine aisle.
she dabbled in the craft of the coven,
while i dabbled in finger paints,
pushing Cindy away from my private
colors and giving young Billy a hard time
for baking a famous cherry pie.

Cindy became a poet, writing about
buttered popcorn and old movies.
Billy became a well-oiled stripper working under the hot
lights on the bronze pole at Club Avalon in Hollywood.

Sarah became a reality television star.
the people who watched her show said
she was better than Superman, yes sir!
i knew Chris Reeves and he was a friend of mine.
he had a terrible fall from his horse and became
paralyzed; yet in blue tights, he looked great!
The military would not want him to appear
in any recruitment office wearing his cape,
hands on hips, shaking bootie.
But he's dead now, so that won't happen.

Sarah is no Chris Reeves, although she probably
wears a mask while her sled dog husband
shouts Mush Mush Mush as she autographs
another book at a convention for the hearing impaired.