Come again? When will I
be stopping by? Try the
31st of Never.
I’m tired of the
droppings. The bounce
of every flea. But it’s
you I most despise.
Never is my favourite
of the months. Even more so
than each June, when everything’s
a-bloom and deftly breezy.
Never has a dozen holidays.
Stay-in-bed
is always every Sunday.
You go to your church,
I’ll stay in mine.
Another will arise
when voluntold:
I’d really like to help,
but it’s only when you need me
you’re in touch,
and that falls upon the
7th.
The 4th and final
Saturday’s
rather special: Bananas
don’t turn brown
within an hour,
from the Grocer’s,
the only day of the year
in which it happens.
I swear that they were
verdant—when we’d loaded
up our cart with squeaky
wheels. The sound of
a thousand mice.
And speaking of food,
Never has the feast worth
waiting for—in honour of
the venerable
St. Screw You!
All-you-can-eat
Tostitos, an affront to
Cinco de Mayo,
30 bags
I have to hide
come May the 5th.
There’s flavours
from Baskin-Robbins
that they’ve never
tried before, one
for every day:
frankly, I list
kale & avocado
as my favourite, its touch of
sage
the colour of my lawn,
that I’d get
around to cutting—
if not for the 29th—
Ottoman Liberation
Day, which has nothing
to do with the Turks,
my feet upon its
vinyl, in honour of
the loafers
who’ve been forced
out to their yard,
told to trim the
hedges, rake the
swinging leaves
now eau de Nil,
take the trash
out to the curb—
which, ironically,
has never been taken
away the month of Never.
Every rodent gorging
in the green
of garbage bins, le vestige
of celebration.
Andreas Gripp
March 12, 2025
RF Image
Comments