My superhero showed up dead drunk
on dilithium crystals,
which he had brushed against
while trying to fix the ship’s warp drive.
A likely story, I said, knowing
he had conflated myths, and seeing
the way his red and blue colored suit
had bled together to make him purple man.
He staggered to the couch and sprawled.
I got him a glass of water,
but he asked for something
with color and more strength.
It’s not so often a man like that
asks you to come to his rescue, let alone
at 11:49 at night, or slurs
that crisp Midwestern speech,
to say nothing of his perfect
but now flattened hair revealing
two cowlicks and a balding patch
at the back of his well-shaped head.
I was not only civil, I was gallant,
or as gallant as a girl should be
to the man of steel when he’s a molten…
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