Superman Watches Lois Lane Pull Weeds

Yes, I am lucky; I’ll never have to die

on a treadmill, starve

myself into a cocktail dress. It doesn’t matter

if I wear a seatbelt or stare into the heart

of the sun (It’s just a dark lump, really).

That’s why I offer to cut onions, tackle

the wasp nests and ant hills

after I save Flash and Atom

from the latest Red Tornado rebellion.

I can’t know what it’s like on all fours, gagging

from the bleaches that won’t take

away the soy sauce stain no matter

how much grit and teeth-grinding

you put into the scrub pad.

When you woke up to your list of chores

scratched through and done, it wasn’t me

shitting on your values, your labor

omnia vincit motto that carried

you through grad school and carries you

to the broom closet or the Windex

when I grab my cape and promise you the world

won’t be torn apart by War-

world or reformed by Luther

and his Kryptonite schemes. But my promises can’t

be prophecies, darling.

That’s the one power I’ve never had.