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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

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