You’ve always liked it
dim. Complain about
light pollution,
that it prevents you
from seeing the stars,
while the steeple
that shines every
night? It blinds
my fucking eyes.
You stopped
receiving
my Christmas cards
fifteen years ago,
sending one back
with a sticky,
jotting Rudolph’s
nose
should never be called
to lead,
and then that time
at the company party,
when you wouldn’t put
a lampshade on your
head, despite your being
sotted to the brim—
as per your father’s
tradition,
as per everyone’s
drunken custom
at the time,
saying
it mutes the light,
that without its
linen sheath
the glare
was much too bright,
losing all the
comfort of its solace,
whenever you slept it
off
upon the couch,
snoring on Sunday morning
instead of singing
Amazing Grace,
in the choir
you were in as a little
boy, fondled between
the sabbaths and your legs,
the evenings after
practice when the candles
were ablaze
and the others
fled for home,
one day bawling
when Christ remarked
don’t keep it under a
bushel he was wrong.
Andreas Gripp
November 23, 2024
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