A sour dream lifts me from bed <br />at 4 a.m. I rummage through the attic <br />looking for something I know not what <br />in the cluttered drawers of a dusty walnut <br />dresser I find a gray-and-white photograph. <br />On the back, a faded scrawl: 1946/ <br />Despite the ripped and torn edges that <br />have blossomed into a fiendish ecru, <br />it could have been taken today. <br /> <br /> <br />Four men are standing beside a virgin <br />Buick. Sunlight sparkles from the chrome, <br />reflected in their faces and in their chests, <br />swollen as a drunken rooster's. <br />They are matadors after the kill, disguised <br />by suits of Puritan gray and feathered fedoras. <br />They are strange and strong, daring and defiant, <br />powerful with pride. <br /> <br /> <br />The arir is electric, filled with tiny golden stars. <br />This magical chariot has erased their history. <br />They are no longer poor farmers. <br />They are no longer mortal. <br />Olympus never knew such gods.<br /><br />David Kowalczyk<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/superman-and-his-brothers-visit-ossuary-new-york/
