L’escargot

This carny is a smarmy

huckster. Uses shells once

home to snails.

Swiped their only domicile.

Even the pea feels guilt.

He’s the realtor keeping

mum about a murder.

Boasts about location.

A public school adjacent.

We’ll see its boarded windows—

he’ll say it’s only closed

for renovations. Will reopen

slicked in tech.

We’ll wonder about the

other houseless laggards.

He’ll say it’s evolution.

That the French prefer

the crunch of vacant husks.

My mind depicts the one

that slipped away, with its sludge

like a portmanteau,

a salmon through a

netting’s only slit,

obsessed with its sense

of abode;

or the lamb which left

the others of its flock,

wise to the wiles of the wolf—

a slimy, faux messiah,

hauling his every hardship

on their shoulders.

Andreas Gripp

August 28, 2026

photograph: Kangah / iStock