At twenty-one she graduated magna cum laude
with a degree in English. Her first apartment
had a leaky faucet that kept her up nights
and a view of the bridge to Metropolis.
Her shoes pinched as she walked
handing over typed carbon copies of her resume
explaining once again that she was not interested
in the secretary position, although she was
good at steno and really appreciated
that comment about her legs.
Late nights with the stray cat
who got in through the fire escape
(she called him Elroy), she looked
out the window and dreamed of uncovering
corruption in the city government.
Her first week at the Daily Planet
they made her get coffee for the fellas,
and assigned her a story on the Junior League.
Writing back to Sam and Ella, she asked
about the weather in Pittsdale, said hello to Lucy,
and could you please send a little money,
although I’m doing just fine.
When those naked pictures Jimmy Olsen took
somehow wound up in Playboy, she went missing
for three days. Some say they saw her with Lex Luthor
in Detroit, sipping screwdrivers and go-go dancing
around the Metro area in white cowboy boots.
At work in her ruffled collar and solid pumps
she looked only at her typewriter. Promptly at five,
she walked into the phonebooth, closed the door,
and screamed for fifteen minutes. Nights with Elroy
and the faucet, she meditated on her chakras, placing
the green crystal Lex gave her on her flat,
***Throughout the month of April, National Poetry Month, poets from the Caribbean and South Florida will be featured on this blog.