Somewhere in mid-Pennsylvania after midnight,
I would stop trying to sleep and turn on the small round reading light above my head
to reread my comic book - Bizarro Superman!
Bizarro, clad in a brightly colored imitation of Superman’s costume, had a child’s backward logic and a syntax to match. “me am not Bizarro No. 1-Me am not alone”
In my favorite story he flew far away from earth to build a world of his own -
A square approximation of earth - that he populated with people he created – imperfect clones of Superman’s friends.
You have to admire those kind of problem solving skills-that sort of creativity - fashioning his own perfectly imperfect place in a universe that didn’t seem to want him in it.
Then I would turn the light off and watch city after city of street lights and shadows
Roll through my blank reflection on the window
until an over-amplified unintelligible mumble alerted us that we would be stopping soon - (was that Filadelglia, Algluna, or Blogstown?)
We would pull into a bus station or rest stop full of light and strangers
where I would eat a piece of Boston Crème pie,
and buy another comic book.
Then Bizarro and I would get back on the bus
And head off toward our new world.