Her cape is ripped,
snagged on splinters, shredded by glass,
no longer flowing behind her in the wind,
faded from years of flying.
The shine rubbed off a long while ago.
Her sleek unitard has seen better days,
worn in several spots,
threadbare where she least needs it to be.
She doesn’t look quite the same in it,
but it’s black,
and years of bad eating habits.
The thigh-high boots will have to go soon
though she doesn’t know how low-heeled clogs will go with this look.
Her feet just aren’t the same.
Her vision is failing.
She can’t see through walls as she used to.
They stop her cold, she gives in too easily.
Her steely grip is weakening from arthritis,
easily dropping things she’s been trying to hold on to.
Had Marvel or DC known her,
she would have remained beautiful, strong, powerful, young –
a force to fear.
In the mirror though, she is drained –
fine-lines earned from real work, long hours,
and endless worries.
She sighs, shrugs, downs her morning elixir,
brewed hot and strong,
and heads out, pulling at her tights,
fluffing out her long-flowing black hair,
(she still has that going)
and calls on her will to
get through another day.