Superman's mother lives
above the music store. The tortured
violins remind her of abandoned
children. Across the square,
chiseled in granite, she can see
the names of the war dead.
When Superman flew, in a sky empty
of everything save himself, his fist thrust
to punch through the air, cape flapping,
boyish curl glued to his forehead,
we had imagined ourselves
in the delicious stratosphere
of immortality.
Alas, Superman is dead, from causes
undetermined. His mother dials his number
in Metropolis and listens to the silence.
A body hurtling through space
hisses like a bad connection.
By David Hart
David Hart was born and raised, more or less, in Galesburg, Illinois, a small town and birthplace of another poet, Carl Sandberg, who was heartily detested by those locals who knew him. The main diversions in Galesburg were dating, beer and golf. David didn't play golf, but he did manage to read a couple of books before he left for college. He majored in English at Northwestern with the hope of being a writer ─ fame, women, wine and long hair ─ but decided he could make a better living at something less reputable. He attended Harvard Law School, practiced in Chicago for about thirty years, retired early, lost his hair, and is dependent upon his wife for support in his dotage.
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