It’s time I wrote a
poem that makes some
money.
I’m unable to get my
groceries
with a dozen Facebook
likes—
one for every
egg within a carton;
for each pair
of toasted slices
from a pack of
Blunder Bread;
for every piece of
fish that's mostly
batter.
Of course, if I
do the proper math,
then pancakes
offer the biggest
bang for a buck—
if I dilute their
gooey mixture
with the water
from my tap,
flip them before
they’re ready,
lower the monthly
bill that’s gone
electric,
wash them down
with a bottle of
home-made wine,
like the one
my Italian neighbour
used to give me:
bitter on the
tongue but very
potent,
foregoing the maple
syrup—
that’s become too pricey
to use;
that flour and sour
grapes
offer a one-two
punch in the morning ,
enough to knock me
out before the dawn,
before I even get the
chance to scrawl haiku.
Andreas Gripp
November 7, 2024
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