He chooses the dustiest superhero suit,
ill-fitting in hospital green,
with thick gathers around the joints
and a Cornish pasty back.
A straight slash marks his mouth,
his limbs are unwieldy side-shows.
There is no cape, but there are two hoods,
one for each eye.
Poised on sock puppet feet,
he raises his slubby chin,
squares what passes for shoulders,
Thor smirks on his hanger.
From the sale rack, Batman snorts
“So what’s your superpower?” I ask, laughing.
He swivels an eye. He says,
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Nina Parmenter would be
pleased to hear them.