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Superman took the A this morning

he caught my eye between Fifty-Ninth and Forty-Second Streets

tall, buffed, extravagantly jawed

with waves of pert blond hair cascading

to his manly shoulders, where they brushed his bright blue

polyester shirt, open two buttons to show a perfect

S of tanned and just-waxed chest.

He smiled at me and asked

if I would be his superhero fantasy queen

of course I agreed right away,

though glancing down at the sticky

patches of sweat on my own blue shirt I wondered

if I were really right for the job.

But after all I do have some journalistic

experience and therefore can hide

behind horn-rimmed glasses and blown-out curls

no one will look at me twice while secretly

I'm having super-hot sex in phone booths

and maybe traveling sometimes high above the skyscrapers

cradled in my man's arms as he makes the slow descent

to earth. Actually, I'm pretty sure I know

why he chose me: all around him on the train

were beautiful women looking at their books

or their nails or out the windows

at the dark and secret labyrinth rushing by.

I, far down the car, bathing in my own heat,

was the only one who noticed he was there.