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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