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I'm Mrs. Superman.
Mrs. C Kent.
That bird, that plane in the sky,
that's my man.
But the bird stopped flying long ago
and all I have left
is this band of gold
glistening on my bony finger.
He walked onto the news floor
all those years ago
with gleaming, black hair
and a glint in his eye
under those wide-rimmed specs.
He was cute, for competition.
Fresh meat off the hot press.
I owned the news floor,
back then,
it was mine.
Before Superman,
I was the high flyer.
Looks at the copier,
glances from the water-cooler.
It had started, marriage, kids
it all followed next.
We adopted a little one,
Chris, our little kryptonian boy.
My super-powered son.
Sometimes Daddy left us,
for weekends back on his planet.
Our marriage was steel-strong.
Our little family was just super.
Until little Chris was crushed.
We were childless
growing older.
I was grey against the young pencil skirts
and tight blouses in the office.
And Clarke's trips away
left me alone.
Eventually I betrayed him,
I wrote my exposé.
I was a reporter, you know,
before I was his wife.
He understood,
we had our final kiss.
My kryptonite.
And he flew off.
Now, as I rock on my porch
looking up at every plane
or bird that dances through the clouds.
I think of my hubby.
Maybe that jets him,
or that crane migrating south for the summer
is really just him,
checking up on his super girl.
Tagged in Superman