I wear baseball
caps in winter,
a toque in mid-
July. Yet every
day’s the same.
I gape out-
side the window
with my cooling
cup of coffee. Always
pour a dash
of Irish Cream. Greet
the same old robin
on the hedge, who’s
just as bored as me.
I have no recipe
to offer
for the worms.
The word from
google news
is never altered.
Trump this. Trump
that. Another
cyber hack. And that slush
will soak my socks
on ol’ St. Paddys.
I’ll hit the tired
sack at 9pm. Writhe
around like something
that is snatched
while it is wet.
In nine unhappy
hours, I live this
yet again.
No—strike that with a
line. This isn’t close
to living.
Like Bill Murray’s
Groundhog Day.
I’ll trod
along to Shoppers
before the valentines
are gone. Grab
the one I buy you
every year. Hearts
are badly cloned.
Red is red is red.
There’s only so
many ways to
render
unceasing love.
I’ll look above
my head
when I am finished,
await the splash
from a speeding car.
The clouds will surely
creep along the canvas,
dawdle like the dogs
I see in their shapes.
They say it’s never
the same sky twice.
Except when they are
absent. When it’s only
glaucous blue.
Tell me raindrops
are only unique
if they will parachute
as flakes. Then melt
on my old English
D. Only for a moment
breathe as snow.
Tell me all this time
I’ve done it wrong :
rinse, repeat, and lather—
the birth of a back-
ward pattern,
of weary, third-
hand hats, daily
failing to veil
my matted hair,
its million, lonely
bubbles.
Andreas Gripp
February 10, 2025
RF Image
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