Friday, March 03, 2017


In July, I don the costume I paid too much
for a school fundraiser; forever limiting my Halloween choices.
Dark blue, deep crimson, this Superman is more modern
and all my children know of heroes.
I chase them mercilessly, around and round the house,
until they are hot with laughter, and I am
sweating from my age.  I feel too old to chase;
too old for this call to adventure.
Crossing the guardian's threshold without aid

(I have no mentor) makes facing my own death and rebirth
too much effort for suburbia; I'd rather mow the lawn.

But how can I return to my children a hero
when all I have is a costume and a dream?
How can I transform for them
from imperfect father who yells too much
into Superman?
How can I atone for my sins:
spanking, yelling, making my children feel less than perfect?
How can I return when all I want is some
peach and quiet and tea; to write in my journal,
imagining myself better than I am?

"Dreams save us; dreams lift us up and transform us."

This is what I have: my dream of guiding my young ones
into a world where dignity, honor, and justice
are not slogans to sell toys.

I will never stop fighting; even if it is with myself;
to be better,
to do better.


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