Seems like everything you
say is pot meet kettle.
Just a clichéd way
to call me hypocrite.
When I told you
that it’s time
to ditch your gossip
magazines, you countered
pot meet kettle. I’ve a
hundred sets of comics
from my boyhood.
Taking too much space
inside the closet. The one
with all your shoes.
Who needs twenty open-
toed, especially when it’s
winter? But my runners
have been ravaged
from the slush, tearing
at the sides
like a whale upon a
boat, split along its
middle, becoming
the very thing
which I despise. Yes-yes,
yet another pot meet kettle.
I shouldn’t have signed
the petition, since I dine
on netted fish.
Now here I am again,
critical of your
latest shopping jaunt.
Pot meet fucking kettle
you respond. Sure,
I spent a trifecta
of fifties
on that giant Canadian
Club, the kind you shove
like a swing , mounted
on its stand until it’s
empty. The deposit’s
only 50 shitty
cents. So I’ll store it
like the gift that
keeps on giving .
You could have used the
money for our dinners,
the kind in a single vessel
you convey, stovetop
set to medium,
creeping up to high
before its climax,
the whistling squeal
beside it
announcing it’s time for
evening tea,
that chai and Irish stew
are being served, the kind
that’s from a can,
that tonight I’ll spend
an hour at the sink,
scrubbing all the black
that’s on their bottoms,
burnt as if toasted
bread, the kind I scrape
with a knife, that your kettle
and my pot
are like a pair of bickering
brothers,
who’ve sauntered
through the hallway
from the mud, both of whom
are piping like a steamship,
their fingers pointed sharply
as though they’re pistols,
or that tired, Spider-Man
meme in which there’s three,
each one blaming the
other
for another mess.
Andreas Gripp
February 17, 2025
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