Celebrities

We don’t need the

athletes to survive.

Their million-dollar

payouts

just to dunk a

rubber ball.

And the actors?

Please. We shouldn’t

give a fuck

for what they’re wearing.

Their vermilion,

gaudy carpets.

We could thrive

without the farmers

if we didn’t have to eat.

A piddling

note of foot

that keeps us honest.

We could even live

without our doctors—

eyes glued

to anatomy

books, with brandy

and a biting stick—

but then we’d need

to know the laws of

fermentation, of

shucking, whittling wood

without the splinters,

making pliers

for their removal

if we fail.

But not the poet.

For how else would we

know the raven’s caw

that cuffs our ears

is the sweetest

hymn from heaven

we’ll ever hear?

That one-and-one

make three in love

and war?

That the worm

around your finger

is the snake from

Eden’s mist,

recoiling

from our touch

when it is dry,

when it is wet

they creep to

orchards, remind

us of our need

for damning fruit.

Andreas Gripp

April 8, 2025

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