Another Daring Day on the Parker Freeway

My death is 60

inches to my right.

The tire of a tractor-

trailer

which is whirling

like a drunken

potter’s wheel—

albeit vertically,

the push of wind

that shoves it

to my lane, looking

like a table saw

on meth,

one that chops your

fingers if you stumble,

cuts your jutting

wrist

just like the end

of a suicide poem.

If I survive

our frenzied ride,

I’ll be sitting with

my friends

in a motorboat,

my head a mere

meter from the swirling

propeller blades;

ready to decap-

itate, telling the Frenchman’s

guillotine: hold my beer!

And then there is

the water

which surrounds,

much deeper than the

wading pool

I was unable to

graduate past,

always fearful

that I’d drown, inhaling

through my nose

the sopped chlorine,

or be the butt of

eat a sandwich!—

if I take to

the diving board,

the obtruding

of my ribs

in midday sun,

or later that same

evening, the dread of

spin-the-bottle,

emptied of its wine,

pointing to the girl

who hates my guts,

will spill them

to the floor

if I should make

a single move

to follow the rules

of this lethal game.

Andreas Gripp

July 1, 2025

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