|Superman as servant to capital.|
in a democratically open jar of society
secrets come at a price,
call it a gossip tax
to cut show winners the way amoeba
under a slide in domed cities
multiply strands passed—
footballs from huddles
that explode on and on
as long as they are fed.
Outside, we concentrate on finding
banana peels to slip along
mixing our words up
not to make anyone feel bad
or we'll find ourselves daydreaming all over—
a land before inflation
when a loaf of bread was always on sale
and D.C. radioed neighbors for any harebrained scheme—
cluster-mines to defend the oceans
drill the tundra for loans.
Then Superman rolled in to testify
against kryptonite. Congress wouldn't listen,
dragged their feet, failed his roll call
to clone some spine back into the house,
called him pagan (wondered if walking back on Krypton
under the alien gravity from whence he came
might be more feasible).
They wouldn't listen to his story
about the end of his world
and no place to call home.
They said, sorry, but flying dudes are old news,
a new economy of terracotta and rutabagas was retaking the wilderness.
(Tacoma 2003; revised 2013)