William Trowbridge can talk tough, in the tradition of fiction's best hard-boiled private-eye wisenheimers. And like those steely-jawed gumshoes, he can look at the tough sights unflinchingly: as, for instance, the “brimstone stinking forests of World War II's atrocities, and at the dark side of of our domestic confusions, where “everything . . . goes kerflooy.” But, like the best of those detectives, he has a warm center, and the daily pleasures of small town life, of youthful romance, of family bonds, elicit a poignant wonderment. We have a lot of weird mysteries to solve, we human beings — and I'm glad William Trowbridge is on the case.”

Albert Goldbarth

Poems by William Trowbridge

Art by Tim Mayer

OLDGUY: SUPERHERO

feels like a young guy in a bad costume.

The arms and legs sag, and the waist's

too tight. Where there should be a large S,

golden star, or lightning bolt, there's what

looks like a zero, and on his trunks, Depends.

The boots look more like flannel slippers.

Some lout's made off with his super-hearing

and X-ray vision, leaving only an Ampli Ear

and Coke-bottle lenses. Like certain sheep,

he doesn't fly so much as plummet. He hasn't

smashed through a good wall or door

since before he can remember, which is

a little after breakfast. Speeding bullets

and tall buildings must now be turtles

and mole hills. He has no fear

of an erection lasting more than four hours,

but he's depressed and often flatulent.

His best tactic, the long wait, accounts

for the demise of many a foe, that

or rambling on and on and on and on,

which can paralyze from as far as ten feet.

He's not handsome like Clark Kent or rich

like Bruce Wayne, but in the prolonged-run

he can be a deadly opponent, if he doesn't

mix you up with someone else.