Bat-Man

Through Gotham City, caped in clouds and darkness, 

bat-like, I flit among the lurid haunts,

proofed and armoured against the city’s shadows,

its gallery of rogues and outlaws, deviants

like Penguin, Riddler, Joker, sleek Catwoman,

Poison Ivy, all mad and threatening chaos,

(such comic-book super-villains, clumsy henchmen,

holed up in lairs and labyrinths, my foes

and alter-egos) while Gotham’s goodly citizens,

who scan the papers for my dark exploits

to brighten up their colourless existence,

lie in bed each night and dream of flights

above the canyoned streets, or swallow-dives

down into the sewerage system through a manhole’s

perfect O, below the straight-laced lives

they fear for, hearing Arkham’s dreadful howls

from the not so far-off distance borne across

(to air-conditioned suburbs where they lie)

the dockyards, river, rail-tracks, old warehouses –

like a bat’s cry, a most melancholy cry

shaken out long and clear upon the night

like a signal reaching up to touch the stars –

a cry for help, a Mayday call, a light

sent out in the dark, to fight the dark, like prayers.