When you asked me for
the best Italian bistro
in this city, I answered
google it.
That day on the beach,
as you peered into the
murk of knee-deep
water, you asked me if it
was safe to swim in,
and I responded google
it.
Dalini's had a slew of
great reviews—its ambience,
its al dente and
pinot noir, its well-earned
Michelin stars;
while the lake
had tested positive
for bacteria, the kind
that makes you sick,
and I was relieved to
stop our plunge
in a matter of moments,
singing the praise
of the county's
daily testing
regimen.
I reply to your
every question
with google it.
There is nearly nothing
that the search
cannot answer—
and yes, I imagine
you think me lazy,
terse, that my lexicon
is void
of romantic words.
But when you ask me
if I love you
I say google
the centipede,
how it never
runs out of
legs,
google the single
polar bear on ice,
never bearing
to leave it
until the final
floe has melted,
and please google the man
in Uzbekistan,
becoming a widower
at 21,
never remarried,
never missed a daily
graveside visit,
and when he turned
one-hundred and one,
worried the world
would run out of flowers
before his final, doleful
kiss upon her name.
Andreas Gripp
August 25, 2024
RF Image
Comments