What I Am And What I Should Be

I was 26 when I became a rope,
stretched from loud brown cocktails to
the hush of burnt oven mits.

I was too thin to be stepped on,
so I just laid,
spread, fine butter for
Homemade Bread Men.

I went on as rope for two years,
reaching both ends of
limit. Ginger snaps
snapped back at me when
I raised a mother’s hand.
A trained ham clamming up, shaking
during the Spirits Earthquake.

I baked them by the dozen,
hard bread snaps to
braid me when I was bad.
Two years rowed its boat swiftly
and now
here I am.

A rope.
Spread thin over aging.
Frayed ends begging to be stayed.
They will not.
Time can not allow it, but time
will be easy on
middle belly.
Center ground.
That is what I should be.

The Man of Steel

Man of Steel installs himself two feet
from me
at the bar,
resting his rusted joints.
The years have been hard on his
Steel bones.

He has a wife who is not made
of metal;
she is the ambiance of
a fresh bloom
or
a spring afternoon
and poofs her hair in the morning.

He wears a charm around his neck,
a talisman,
because a man of
gird cannot
move on his own –
steel is heavy!

A potion of spirits
must surely add to the corrosion in
his joints but it seems
to soften his supportive structure.

All the people,
all the people,
all the people want to know him.
A man buys him another drink;
the bartender leans
over the counter
to reveal her
gourmet mammals.
All shriek and snort around in
merriment and mirth.

Oh, what a great invention by
The Man of Steel! He almost sucked me
in to his illusion, but then I
saw his bandaged elbow dribble
when he bent the glass
to his cheek.

Men of Steel can do many things
but Men of Steel
don’t leak!