I still consider myself to be a very lucky man,
and whatever the neighbors saw, they saw.
What are we supposed to do now? Move away?
Slink in and out of our own home, our own bedroom?
Throw away a beautiful, custom-designed Neoprene suit
that has served me well—served us well—for two years?
It was two years ago that I finally told Donna what it was
I’d been dreaming about: the bat signal beamed onto
the wall, above our headboard, and me as her hero.
What man, 62 years old, doesn’t want to be a hero
to his wife, or to anyone? The world offers enough
chances to be weak, to be old. I have loved
being strong, being complicated, and I would
do it all again, being found like that, our neighbors,
the ambulance ride—I would do it all again,
for the chance to leap to her rescue, untie her.
My Donna. My knockout. My Vicki Vale for life.
Too Late the Hero