Casablanca, or Our Teflon is a Liar

This morning we’re

scalding our tongues, drinking coffee

right out of the pot; the stacks of cups

that lean upon the plates

like tilt-a-whirls.

The dishes won’t wash themselves.

But one time it will

happen while we slumber.

I envision the tongs

that upended the franks

hushfully turning on the

tap, a spoon which stirs the

Sunlight into froth; a waft of pseudo-

lemon while the knives are

first to leap into

the bubbles, shoving the

other utensils

like a lout along

the deck of a local pool;

the spatula hoisting

the forks with one accord,

flipping them like it’s

done a thousand omelettes;

views their plunge

into the sink to play a

raucous Marco Polo—

the colander winning again

while the wok cries it’s a cheat;

the cleaver standing

sentry like a lifeguard

should we wake, concocting

a silly fable of

a burglar who came to pilfer,

so revolted by the chaos

that he resolved to sponge them up

before he fled with Foreman's

Grill, George’s promise

that our steak will turn out

better than the Keg’s—

the one which we stopped using,

a sonuva bitch to scrub,

dining out instead with

our excuse it’s a special day—

maybe in Morocco, where they’ve

mastered the art of eating

with their hands, never

spilling a crumb upon their

platters, which the children toss

as frisbees while the parents

put their feet up for another

lazy night beneath the stars.

Andreas Gripp

December 18, 2025

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