Falling Back

I loathe this time of year.

You get an extra hour’s

sleep. That hardly atones for

a sun clocking out at

4:44 pm. And everyone’s

falling forward when they trip.

Your shitty little ditty to

remember has been wrong.

This gift of 60 minutes

comes with strings:

my conscience is

a brutal, drilling sergeant—

not Schultz & apple strudel.

It will hardly let me slumber

my way to 9:30 Cap’n Crunch.

It’s an hour to live again—

make up for my sloth upon

the sofa; scrolling through a

kitten cornucopia, the sea of

Trump fiascos, the latest

midnight brawl at

Waffle House.

This year it is different.

I’ll serve a royal breakfast

for the unhoused souls on Main;

dialing Musk and Bibi, able

at last to convince them  

genocide’s so passé.

I will jump in the ring

with Fury, give my millions

to the Lord. He gets it—

could have used one

less tortured hour at Golgotha.

I will pen an anthem

for the world—

sung in the key of love;

hip-hop to a cello,

the harpist strumming KISS;

with Blind Bobby Seyfferth

ripping off his shades, able to see

the blues, the sun a lagging child

skipping a smidgen behind the times.

Andreas Gripp

October 25, 2026

photograph: SB Arts Media / Adobe Stock