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Poetry

Superman’s Second Job

I saw Superman on the way to his

second job, working security at

the sports arena. You’d think

that the cape would get him some

respect there but no, the punks

are still punks and the drunks

are still drunks. The superhero

business, I guess, just isn’t

what it used to be - lawsuits

and labor disputes and those

damn illegals doing the work

for a fraction of the cost. It’s

no way for the Man of Steel to

spend his days, patting down

the locals for contraband, paid

minimum wage and a discount at

the gift shop, a tip here or there

if no ones the wiser. And rumor

has it that Batman works the

concession stand every Tuesday

and Saturday night, still on

probation and waiting for his

quarter-an-hour raise.

eric evans


A Temporary Language

Spring has sprung

and summer night looms,

a glass of lemonade with a bit

of a spike and a black cotton

nightgown, all shoulders and

freckles, a fingertip and the

constellations they’ll create,

the air pushed about by a ceiling

fan, our words cut thin into

syllables to float on down

and onto our backs, mixing

with the new proclamations in

ascent, a temporary language

in a universal tongue, the sound

of time suspended, bodies bound

in amber, translucent and free,

the room a monument to the shape

of all the days’ better things.

eric evans

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