Preparation
Even after all these years, I don’t know
what he does down there in his cave, down there
in the dark — he says he’s preparing. Go
to bed, he says, and then he disappears
into the someplace beyond his books, sometimes
muttering at my reckless ineptitude,
warning me that I must not come
until we are summoned.
I don’t accept
it. I press my ear to the floor. I wait.
I hear cupboard doors thrown open, slammed shut,
the clatter and crash of tools, cursing, plates
being smashed, wild singing, sobbing.
So . . . what
are the utilities we’ll need next time — zip
lines? Goo globules? Thermite? Explosive gel?
Tranquilizer darts? Bolas? The Claw? Kryptonite?
He’s down there. Loading up our belts.
© Michael Fleming
Brattleboro, Vermont
January 2014
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