1AM Outside Metropolis

A Poem About Getting Over Ourselves

“What an interesting thing, to get over ourselves,”
said Clark to Bruce.

The two were hunched under the dim bar lights.
Clark cupped his usual Pabst
while Bruce raced cherries around his Manhattan.

“That secret identity, the one I hid—
It was more like being naked inside a phone booth.”

Bruce chewed a sip and swallowed.

“At least you weren’t dumb enough to do the mask thing.
ZERO peripheral vision.
All my hits came sideways.”

Clark took a final swig and raised his finger at the bartender.

“I tripped on my cape a couple of times.”

“Oh, me too. Always made them edit that out.”

Removing his glasses, Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Hey, where’d you go, buddy?” cracked Bruce.

Reapplying them, he swept his cowlick and mumbled,

“I almost forgot what it’s like to feel my feet on the ground.”

Bruce scratched the shadow off his chin and let some air escape
his nostrils.

“Kind of like coming out of a cave.”

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