Donning the ability ring from the bottom of a cereal box
and October’s shrunken Spiderman costume,
he heads back toward the hall closet.
I call him crazy. He calls himself a crime fighter.

Invulnerable behind his polyester breast plate,
he withdraws his secret weapon from its holster
and struggles through my bedroom door.
He offers to rescue me. I tell him to save the rest of the house.

He bounds down the steps, weapon in hand,
two at a time, to the chaos of the family room.
With deafening blows he brings truth and justice,
and leaves perfect lanes on the blemished carpet.

If only for a moment he defeats his nemesis,
restoring order the only way he knows -
hiding dysfunction in a disposable vacuum bag
just like his mother used to.

Clutching his plastic sidekick, he flies upstairs
and hurdles the wooden rails of his command center,
lying awake until the people need him
and it’s his time once again.