He has scribbled black Crayola all over
his face, a mask he grins through
with a front tooth missing. He announces
he is now Captain Baby Pants
and that he has no super powers,
but I beg to differ.
He has strength enough to stretch me
into previously unmarked territory:
my personal Antipodes, cluttered
with old luggage, tarnished silver
and staircases leading to parts unknown.
He has a mighty grip as he takes my hand
and navigates a parking lot or a psychiatrist’s office.
He can metamorphose into any beast
or being, and his voice is a sonic boom
felt in other hemispheres.
And at times, he fades into opaqueness
which is even more deceptive than invisibility
because while I can see him clearly,
I lose what’s behind his eyes.
But I scoop him up with my own mom-like strength
because it’s bath time
and I’m still discovering his secret identity.