My kitchen is filled with men in black suits
I ask one of them to tell me the story of Batman,
as I know the outline, the bare facts found in comic books,
but not the deeper mythology.
Their spokesman listens patiently, says:
“We can only tell the true story of Bruce Wayne in plainsong.”
He assembles them as a choir. They tune, begin.
The low, solemn voices of men rise and fall
as the tragedy of Dr. Thomas and Martha Wayne
unfolds.
As I wake, I think: this melody is not plainsong or chant.
It sounds a bit like nineteenth century hymnody
like “Abide With Me, or “Lead Me Gently Home, Father.”
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