When I snatched the
final apple from the
bowl, you fumed that
I was Hitler. My seventh
from a dozen
in a bag. Offering
you a slice
didn’t appease.
And there,
tugging at the blanket
in our bed, taking a nano-
metre more than my
allotment—Hitler
once again.
I remember when
we met, at the meeting
of The Reds—the Bolshevik
subversives, from which
I was later
banned,
scoffing at the
Guevara wannabes,
their camouflage
trousers, the puffs
on their cigars,
confessing that I’m
Social Democrat,
that it’s OK
if we forego the
starred berets:
get the fuck
out of here
HITLER!
And my hinting
Bernie Sanders
needs to tone it down
a notch? That I liked a
post from Carney?
Give your jackboots
another polish
Uncle Adolf!
And now this
very morning ,
when I didn’t
replace the emptied
bag of milk,
emerging from the
kitchen
without the wiping
of the white
above my lip—
like wearing
half a moustache,
one that’s in the
groove below my
nose, picking a
piss-poor moment
in which to stretch
my arm & hand out
in hello, tread in
blatant goose-step
round a spill,
bop my head to the
burst of Wagner’s Ring—
bleeding from the
ceiling just above us.
Andreas Gripp
February 8, 2025
RF Image
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