Distance, or View from the 19th Floor

The young

tanned woman sporting

Lululemon

was checking me out

from a distance.

Sure. She was a football

field away. Wore specs

to align her sight. Worse

than Mr. Magoo

along the dock in

London Fog.

Where the fingers

in your pocket

aren’t yours.

Your wallet going

AWOL

like a Lieutenant

not coming back from

evening Leave.

When it came to

hugs & kisses, many

gave their stripes

to sense the touch.

You say tiger.

I say cat-o’-

nine-tails.

Watch the tunic

shroud the scars

like a Major

concealing everything he’s

lost—with just the brume from

cigarettes. He’ll tell you

cancer’s worth it.

You will never be as loved

as when sickness sucks

the flesh right from your

bones like granny’s Hoover.

Who said skeletons

can’t be treasured? Behold

their airy weight—

whenever tempests

hoist them up

upon their shoulders,

like you with your scrawny

frame atop your

mom before consumption.

None of that’s essential.

From a hundred

yards away she'll envisage

muscles beneath my shirt that

aren’t there. That my

dreamy locks of hair

are being tousled by

the gales, a beard not

grey but a gorgeous

lightning blond, defining my

chiselled jaw that’s simply

shy.

She’ll think my limp

is not from age

but from the day I

saved a child from a

Rottie, taking the

mutilation

meant for her.

That I gave my

cane to Gertrude

in the park, ever-sensitive

fellow that I am. That I won’t

even take a measly

10-second breather

on a bench.

There’s always someone 

who needs it more.

She’ll follow me till

the boardwalk

cul-de-sacs, my plastic

crocs five-thousand

inches yonder

than her gait. Getting brisker

by the moment.

I think the smaller the

measurement, the greater the

chance I’ll elude her

until nightfall. When it’s much

too dark to matter. For both our

wearied spirits.

Bleeding can be

stunning from afar. Join me on

the ledge and I will show you—

once the dawn has

felled the nocturn

with its brawny, golden arms.

Andreas Gripp

June 3, 2026

photo by Edith Soto