Beyond Incredible

What, dare I ask, is your secret Superpower? So many live with one, Endure one, suffer one-- At *least* one, so it seems. A trip to the grocer reveals A panoply of X-men heroes Immersed in quiet oblivion, Suspended animation: Standing in the checkout line Is a girl who can make Steel cold-weld with her eyes, As strongly as if fused By acetylene's ferocity. She phones her boyfriend, wondering If he would accept microwave pasta So she can play bridge With the girls tonight. Among the tomatoes and radishes Slow-strides a tired-looking man Who once lifted an excavator Six inches off the ground To retrieve his wallet From between the treads. He doesn't think about it now; He didn't try it again. Why Would he? It was surely just A false memory, a dream. A few aisles over Another face, shadowy And of indeterminate sex, Examines the olive selection, Lightly relieved as always That the jars do not radiate Inmost thoughts, plans, Compulsions, fetishes, The way most humans do, That slow-steady seep of Psychic un-hygiene, that tells On the unpracticed mind. Banality, routine, and *comfort* Are powerful more than any fetters: The heroes do not even think They are anything special. Dysfunction, having usurped Beauty's crown, deems them Outmoded, mere dust. Nobody sees them, Nobody uses them, Themselves least of all.