Andrew Spice

When he dances

in a turn, a jump,

a killer smile,

he has a plan

more cunning than

a Broadway star,

more ancient than

a Stratford Bard.

Whatever they’re thinking

he’ll make them feel

more human, more real,

from the depth of a wellspring

 ‘Remember. Remember; yeah, yeah!

They will remember me!’

Superman

goes back to the wife and kids,
drives through amber on the way;
ready for his running club,
then a final drop of lids;
snoring like a dozy bear,
snorting like a horse in hay.

One day he’ll come back home and blub,
- wail - as every baby can:

missing sunrise, waving corn,
huddles, eyeballs, nothing more.