© Susan Culver

Do You Really Want To Be My Hero?

It won't be easy,
there in the lamp burn, the sea
of slender feet and you with your mind
on war, your palace and its sigh impatient;
you, with your pressing politics, no time
for that damned glass slipper
in the rush of the would be king.

It won't be easy,
there in the heather hollows, miles
from my burning village and you,
in your knight suit; you, with your smooth
steed, your adrenaline glow;
you, with a hundred maidens
all equal in need and distance.

It won't be easy,
there in the beachlands, the flash
in the pan and you, with your persistent
life, your gold dreams; you, with a family
and a family and a family; you,
with only a half breath
with which to breathe in the otherwise.

It won't be easy,
there in the shell shocked section
of the city and you, with your gated mansion,
your languid hours; you with your fast car,
your finer things; you, with your trips
to the moon, your secret lingerings
on this side of the tracks.

It won't be easy,
there in the war zone, on the rage stage,
the places of me that I don't understand;
you, with your eternal hope, your dark
red defiance; you, with a sword
in your hand and my name on your lips;
you, who could maybe save me.

Baby, it won't be easy.