My Lover’s Feet

I sit on the floor with my dog and read

comic books. He can't read, of course, so I

read to him, even point at the pictures.

See there, boy? Batman and Robin swing down

from the top of the Gotham Museum

just in time to catch the Riddler--see?--in

the next panel. I guess he can't see them

well so he sniffs at them, leaving some drool

on Robin's crotch. I laugh because it looks

like the Boy Wonder pee'd in his pants, though

he doesn't wear any, only green shorts.

My dog's laughing, too. But does he know why?

When we get to the end of the story

I pin a towel to my shirt. I'm Robin.

He's Ace the Bat-hound. But there's no Batman

to play with, except my father, who sits

under the oak tree, reading the paper,

and he's too old and out of shape and won't

play anyway. Fooey. So we pretend

Batman's away on a case, out of town.

Maybe he's with the Justice League. Superman

needed him, maybe. Or he's Bruce Wayne, out

on a date, or at Wayne Enterprises,

or has the flu or is in the Batcave

working on something Top Secret, leaving

us to fight crime. But we can handle it.

When we're through we go back to Wayne Manor

and fill him in. A job well done, he says.

Still, I say, it's not the same without you

out there with us on patrol. I take off

my cape and we go outside, where Father's

fallen asleep with the business pages.

I look at him and think about heroes

who wear suits and ties and go off to work

each morning and come home late and eat and

have a beer and watch a little TV

and go to bed too early for grown-ups.

In his chair he's as still as a cartoon

character in one of my comic books.

His paper is white, like a word balloon, and

the words aren't his, but if I rearrange

them they say Crime does not pay, and, Evil

never rests, and, The good always triumphs.

My dog and I sit at his feet, and if

we wait long enough, then he'll come to life.

But if we disturb the world will end.