The Equinox does this
to him: brings up the hard
stuff – the turning leaves
and diminishing days make
him long to be among
the evergreens, where
he can crack his knuckles
in solitude, eat in the cool
dim light – Hulk wants
to feel normal; he wants
to worry about what
it means to grow old –

but Hulk is gamma rays,
Hulk is a golem, Hulk is
King Kong; he’s Lou Ferrigno
painted big and green and
deaf and smashing through
a big white world – but Hulk
wants to work! Hulk has
a skill set! He is a great
big jackhammer! Hulk
can dig holes! Hulk can crush
and crack and frack and
Hulk can mine for diamonds
and silver and gold!
– but, like Frankenstein,
Hulk has no childhood
and no children –

on days like this,
Hulk thinks about Bruce,
thinks about what he owes
Bruce for all his troubles,
all his broken wardrobe,
stretched and torn;
all those mornings, Bruce
waking up post-Hulk,
miles and miles from home –
and for all that? At least
when Bruce Banner dies
they’ll say The Hulk
was a part of him,
not the other way around –