We do nothing but
talk about the weather.
I know what you’re thinking—
this is gonna be
a boring poem. Like discussion
done in piecemeal,
the silence between the
clouds—excruciating ,
like the pause
between the tug and yank
of teeth.
I prefer it if it rains—
we have a trillion
drops of water from which
to choose, note most of them
are redundant—kerplunking
on the roadway, landing on our
rooves
like kamikazes.
You say the simile
is stupid, that I’m trying too hard
to sound so über-hip,
snarl the Japanese aren't
keen—on the use
of the triggering term.
I think you speak
of roofs, quote Dr. Johnson's
Dictionary, 1755:
In the plural
Sydney has rooves—
now obsolete.
Instead you counter shingles:
they're a pricey, pain in the
ass. I had them once as well.
Annoyed my mother called the
roofers, that I greeted them
at the door without my
clothes. That they fled on the sight
of me. This thing that looks like
measles
beneath a stodgy,
speechless sun.
Andreas Gripp
February 18, 2025
Andreas Gripp
Comments