Kriptonite
I am not Super,
the earths yellow
sun
makes my head
pound
some mornings.
As a boy I
would use
clothespins to
fasten Moms
bath towels
around my
neck.
Close as I
ever got.
Still those
eyes,
like Kriptonite,
make me
weak
steal my ability
to speak
then
make me repeat
myself; ramble.
Caught in the
tractor beam
of her smile
I cannot
pull away.
I am fearful
that Scotty
will
snatch me
from her
in a swirl
of color and
light,
before I tire of
her world.
I never tire
of her world,
or those
Kriptonite eyes.
I am not
Superman,
still
in her presence
I would leap
buildings;
at least make
a bounding try.
