Secret Origins of the Super-Villains

The comic book arrives in the mail,
found on eBay, sold by a stranger,
my childhood memory only $10
plus postage.
I’ve wanted this since I was six,
the oversized DC for $1.00,
cried over its disappearance
from the rack at Grant’s,
my parents screaming at each other
over why they wasted money
on Lion Country Safari,
when all I wanted was the comic:
Secret Origins of the Super-Villains.
The cover emblazoned on my brain,
a holy grail for almost thirty years.
Superman, Batman, The Flash,
and Wonder Woman all hard-charging
toward the enemies, Lex Luthor,
The Joker, Captain Cold and Cheetah.
Now I have it in my hands, and it means
nothing. It’s as perfect
as a summer day in 1975, unscarred by time,
pristine in plastic wrapper.
Maybe I just wanted that year back,
and the twenty that followed.
To take those days, put them under
lock and key or on a high shelf,
protected from damage.
Maybe I just want to believe,
like when I was five,
that someone could save me.
Could keep my parents together,
save people from dying,
and buildings from falling.
Even at thirty one, sitting in front of a TV
on a blue September morning
as the planes crashed in NYC,
I held out hope there might be a Superman.