The Poetry of
Jack Scott

Superman Needs a Place to Change

There is, of course,
the possibility of dying.
I know what I can do,
yet have not done it.
I cannot take a hint:
the seventy foot fall into mortality
was not enough,
six car wrecks,
three packs a day,
close shaves from razor cliffs
but not one broken leg,
no loss of blood worth mentioning.
Exams crammed at curtain time.
Star without rehearsal,
paid for dream by dream.
I know my shit, I know my lines
or else I’ll improvise them.
Superman wants to change
– there is no vacancy, oh well,
a phone booth will have to do-
and wants to fly.
SUPERBODY will not take a hint!
Who mentioned dying?
I brush the teeth of death
and have the freshest breath.
This dying, I must practice
by living at its edge
so I may grow to understand it,
pull its sting before it bites.
Touch precedes belief, and then
I must practice living to die well,
the only way to do it déjà vu.
For now, ascending trivia
toward more important things,
putting pointless passions behind
I do not trip upon the staircase,
rise to the occasion
that will put me face to face with death
and not let me come undone.


630 ®Copyright 1973 Jack Scott. All rights reserved.