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Clark Kent, Naked

This poem appeared in the April, 1996 issue of M.E.N. Magazine
 


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  They found him in a phone booth, huddled,

frail as a fetus, shivering in the cold.

The problem, he said, was that when he began

to take off his clothes for the usual transformation,

the blue and red suit with the yellow "S"

emblazoned across the front, just wasn't there.

He couldn't believe it, he said, and kept disrobing

when he was assaulted by a transient who took the pile of clothes.

He insisted that no one tell Lois as they led him away

covered by a wool blanket, babbling incoherently

to the air in front of him, remembering how things used to be.

Fred Moramarco

from Men of Our Time: An Anthology of Male Poetry in Contemporary America Click here for more information on this anthology.


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