Poetry: Kryptonite

Kryp­tonite
–Ron Koertge

Lois liked to see the bul­lets bounce
off Super­man’s chest, and of course
she was proud when he leaned into
a loco­mo­tive and saved the crippled
orphan who had fall­en on the tracks.

Yet on those long nights when he was
read­just­ing lon­gi­tude or destroying
a mete­or head­ed right for some nun,
Lois con­sid­ered car­ry­ing just a smidgen
of kryp­tonite in her purse or at least
mak­ing a tinc­ture to dab behind her ears.

She pic­tured his knees giv­ing way,
the col­or drain­ing from his cheeks.
He’d lie on the couch like a guy with
the flu, too weak to paint the front
porch or take out the garbage. She
could peek down his tights or draw
on his cheek with a ball point. She
might even muss his hair and slap
him around.

“Hey, what’d I do?” he’d croak just
like a reg­u­lar boyfriend. At last.