Children at Play

We’ve driven down

this street for seven

ages & haven’t seen them.

A diamond

sign that lies. Or maybe

out-of-date by

a country mile.

Kids on Phones would

be more apropos—

hinting we should

creep at a loris’

pace—they’ll never

see us coming

thanks to Apple.

I’m Methuselah-

enough to think of

Beatles. Or maybe

Eden’s garden,  

a sluggish serpent/snake.

They’ll step in

front of our Audi—

every gaze is

drooped—like flowers

in the crack of

pavement where

the rain has failed to reach.

And such are they—

missing the gift of

water all around them—

a creamy May

magnolia, drops of dew

on webs,  

burnets bobbed in air—

like boats

against a billow—

clouds in a three-

legged dash.

Eyes of four are

needed in this era—

two to see us coming—

winking to acknowledge—

and a pair to see how

Amber Dawn is garbed on

Instagram—shorts pulled

to her hips, too soon 

to boast of thighs,

& LaMarcus on his skateboard

in a tumble—headfirst

in the roses

that he never knew were there,

the scrape of thorns to

scream he’s still alive,

like we whenever

the cat has had

enough of our inertia on

the couch, gaping through a

glass that’s not the

window we haven’t wiped in

20 years.

Andreas Gripp

June 22, 2026

photo of Slow Loris, The Pollination Project