In the attic the author caught
the scent from boyhood, and his career catapulted
from one track to another.
How I dragged my reluctant voice
over large balloons of small print
for you, Dick Tracy or Superman.
How you sank into the pages.
How the newsprint
inked our fingers.
Teachers and mothers cried danger,
but no. You became the superhero.
Those belabored words
on cheap paper caught something
unintended. My past pages hold
Little Lulu, Slugo, and the flightiness
of Veronica, the clueless Archie.
Genies escape from dusty jugs
left forgotten in unused rooms,
and magic gives no account of itself.