The final line of this
poem no longer
exists. It was surely there
for the taking , its fingernails
clutching rock, at the
top of a ragged cliff
from which it hung ,
a Wile E. Coyote
in the making.
This poem’s final line
is a bar of soap
in the steamy shower,
pushed away from my
hand by its slime,
ready to trip me up
the moment it
falls, my eyes closed tightly
from the suds of cheap
shampoo, its lie of no more
tears.
The final line of this
poem is a cheeky kid
playing hide-and-seek,
concealed behind the
curtains, waiting for me
to open—then disappear
like David Blaine.
Dear darling of a
brat, I promise not to
harm, will only borrow
what I need to make this
grand, let you vanish
in the air
once I’ve wrenched you
from my hat
by your fluffy ears.
Andreas Gripp
September 17, 2024
RF Image
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