Superman

In the icy wastes of the north

the last crystal lies encased

in the cold silence and solitude

of my lonely fortress. It keeps the secret

of how I came from far away

(my home planet- of Krypton- dying,

my father Jor-El and mother Lara

both in my heart) across aeons

to land in Kansas, on a mid-west farm,

and was raised by God-fearing folks, Martha

and Jonathan Kent, how I grew up strong,

like each year’s corn and became a man.

And now the city is my home.

Metropolis, its noisy streets

and vast skyscrapers, its busy soul 

the centre of the universe,

where I ply my trade of news reporter -

The Daily Planet, Lois Lane

and Lex Luthor, the good fight,

America, the stars and stripes.          

Awkward, shy, bespectacled,

I hold the coffee while history happens, 

watching my other self on the news 

fly around buildings, stop runaway trains,

turn back tidal waves, detonate asteroids

with a steely glare, or just melt hearts

when I rescue kittens stuck up trees 

as the office cheers and Lois blushes. 

Only the last crystal knows 

the force it takes to stop myself 

revealing all, but that would spoil 

the fun I have crossing streets 

of mid-town rush-hour traffic, ripping 

open my Sears shirt to unburden 

an emblazoned chest, the casement of

ten million megaton of love.