People don’t realize how lonely
the super-life can be.
No one to cook dinner
or wash your clothes
and your costume always
in constant need.
They don’t see the bruises,
the scrapes, the scars.
All they hear are the cheers,
even when they’re hissing
beneath their breath
without an ounce of fear.
They’ve never watched you eat
alone without a mask,
microwaving burritos
that taste like plastic ash,
never knowing your tongue
never quite escaped Dimension MAX.
They’ve never had to wake up
in a strange lair
with an atom-splitting headache,
trussed upside-down,
smelling of their own vomit
and hardly able to breathe
through a blood-caked sea.
They’ve never had to devise
escapes from nefarious plots,
or learn to make bail
without a valid ID,
or bunk overnight
in an unmarked cell
while trying to ignore the tales
of the latest Kevlar Clarabell.
They’ve never had to look up
and feel the responsibility
of an entire city bearing down
while their ears rang
and their web-shooters ran dry
and the memory of their mother yelled,
Why can’t you ever once be on time?
They just don’t know what it’s like,
and even if you could,
you wouldn’t tell them —
not about the ramen noodle feasts
or washing your mask in the kitchen sink.
You’d let them think
you had a mansion uptown
and a girl from Models, Inc.
Because you are a super-hero
and without great power
what reason would you have
to believe our best intentions
are so much better than the greed
that is so often caught
betwixt the villainous webs
of you and me?
About Jack Vian
