Clark is a Greek hero, gift-
bearing, has Henderson wrapped,
like potatoes in a sack,
in his cape of red fabric.
Like his leotards' blue,
it seems a shade of dull gray
against the backdrop of night.
The sheen off them would stop traffic
if he did his good deeds by day.
The time is not yet right
for that. Gray will have to do
for now, until he's ready
to tackle public display,
to become a spectacle.
Until then, smear the scrim of night
that dull color! Splatter of flight
off his uniform -- remnant
of searing the baby-blankets,
clipping their red & blue in two
with the eye-fire, ruby
laser beams that cut the way
no shears can -- slice the night grayly!
Sometimes it's so dark that
what he wears appears as black
as a Western villain's hat.
Villains seen in this wear white.
Black and white make gray, and
the query of the day is this:
Can Henderson see shades of gray,
or only what's wrong and right?;
and, if he can, can he see gray
in the need for the law's delay?
Though thundering hoofbeats articulate
facts constituting probable cause,
no wave of arrests can Smallville take.
Clark must talk, give the agent pause,
tutor him in local flaws
and so keep still the dull waters
of this resuscitating town.
The victim hung has been cut down:
Let the gray corpse rest,
let it lie like a dead man's
and be no argument's subject.
His trajectory takes them down.
In flight, they slice the wind
and it whistles, grayly. He lands,
and Ma admonishes him (not gaily):
-- Clark, you can't confront the agent
in that ridiculous get-up.
If a man's to be took serious,
he's got to look respectable.
Go change to pants and a shirt
and try to put up a good front.
He does, then sets the table while
Sarah presses a cold compress
to Henderson's bruised brow. Inert
on the chesterfield the agent lies,
his moans becoming groans,
and the groans garbled words,
barely audible. It will be awhile
before he is able to sup with them.