Doorbell rings it's the FBI
We learned Spy vs. Spy
You, my friend,
are as guilty as can be
I know you called
—REM, Star 69
My childhood ceased
abruptly
with the star of sixty-
nine. A sun in super-
nova as we slept;
Nicky’s knuckles
much too bruised
to rap on knowing
doors. Never suspecting
the camera by the
buzzer—just a fake.
Like some gadget
from an issue
of MAD.
No more Devil’s
Night, spritzing
from a can
upon a window,
a dozen, broken
eggs
in a public
mail slot, back in the
heady days we
still wrote letters,
anonymous
to our crush,
or doling out
the dollars—on flowers
in a vase,
when I wasn’t even
trying to be funny,
red-faced
on Valentine’s,
sensing that she knew.
The pizza place
grew wise to
our wily ways,
quadruple anchovies
please, the man on the
lighted porch
that smelt of fish,
spotting us
in the bushes,
then running for our lives.
Just once
I wished
the gag had actually
worked: someone falling
for the ruse
the final time—their handset
dropped & dangling ,
like a banana
from its coil,
a fridge
forever dashing
to the ambit,
feet in hot
pursuit.
Andreas Gripp
February 15, 2025
RF Image
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