Comic Man Poem by Joe Oppenheimer

Old man, dead pan.
Past your prime,
pumping iron all the time
everyday a bit lighter
than
yesterday.

Finish in the shower
cleaning your skin, loose
on that tower
that maybe was
unremarkable in every way,
save the old marine
buzzcut:
of now
missing hair,

gray,
as the far faded red field
in the small
dusty blue
and yellow
now ochre
logo
tattooed
to your upper biceps.
"Superman! " it
advertised -
in small -
lived here,
one
perhaps
heroic moment.

Did you leap
tall buildings
to save
a friend
or dream of stopping crime?

Perhaps you thought
you saved Switzerland
from Nazi time
or told old Churchill
of a coming attack.

With such little reality
to hold,
why not
be bold
and proclaim
yourself -
comic man.