The Loneliest Pouch
dedicated to the extraneous Rob Liefeld
I’m not made to long
for much. Just relevance —
To dangle off the oblong
pectoral of a roided out
anti-hero. I could hold
a few extra bullets. I could be
Keeper of the Lucky
Spares! When the bad
guy thinks you’re down
for the count, I can regurge
a couple of .40 calibers
to lodge in his meat.
The maker would be
so proud that he’d charge
for autographs on my issues
once production companies
create more compelling
stories about this hunky
block of man and his trusty
pec pouch. And yet, here
I sit, in the far backest
pages of a sketchbook
under a heading labeled
“...more accessories?”
waiting for the resurgence
of some Bronze Age,
hoping that I could at least
be a thigh pouch
on a busty, and one day
fridged, female companion.
First Published in Freezeray Poetry, issue 22 2022