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 won’t accept that. 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, sobs, silence. What sudden needs does he somehow foresee — zip lines? Goo globules? Thermite? Explosive gel? Tranquilizer darts? Bolas? The Claw? Kryptonite? He’s down there. Loading up the belt.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont January 2014