Even x-ray vision can't find what's vanished:
phone booths. There's no place left to dodge Lois,
tug at a narrow black tie, shuffle off a mild
mannered self, my blazing emblem of Supremacy
exploding past closed buttons, past all possibles.
Bolted surveillance cameras pry everywhere, as if
they could leap tall buildings in any number of bounds.
The Daily Planet's in big trouble, I'll get my pink slip,
probably Friday. I wonder what I should call my blog.
Cell phone drivers know the perils they invite, all
minutes used up in one frenzied second of fractured steel
and smashed glass. Perhaps they fret over a few dropped
calls, brain tumors, or next month's bill. Do they know
or care each device they clutch is packed with kryptonite?
John
Adult
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