about-face

I know a poet

who begins his verse

with an astonishing,

a-ha end,

pedals back

like a politician—

once he’s taken his

oath:

a bear on a circus

bike, where out is in

and forward a reverse

on steroids.

Our world is a line

that’s balled, a double

entendre, yes—

so who are you

to enjoin our every

arrow, signs of speed &

nearness—as sharing

indisputable truth?

Forget the legalese—

I caught one of them

on the highway—

an orange, bold-faced

lie—a detour of

remittance, returning me

where I’d started,

or maybe it was an

offer of salvation, the chance

to do it over, this err-prone,

rudderless trek? That

I should be walking

instead of driving, giving

myself the time

to make all the right

decisions; yielding

where I should,

speeding where I must,

aware a u-turn

is an n

that’s downside-up,

and if your final

line is lacking

a coup de grâce,

the one that snags the prize

from all the others,

just repeat your closing words

just repeat your closing words

Andreas Gripp

May 2, 2025

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