Mysteries

People have said

what’s dreadful comes

in threes. For me

they come in twos—

the proverbial second

shoe, plopping from the

ceiling , when I try

the sneakers on

and the right is tighter

than left. Both will be

abandoned to their box.

Have you ever seen a

human leave Adidas

with a single cleat?

The time I lost a glove

I kept the other in a basket—

where it baited, suggesting

that my fingers

could take turns

at keeping snug , while I

saunter the downtown streets,

looking like an ass-clown

who's too cheap to buy a pair.

There’s a reason that

our marriage was a failure.

Forever stuck on two.

If we’d been instead a trio

I swear it would’ve been better.

I’m not talking ménage à trois—

but casseroles & dishes.

Another could have

scrubbed while we embraced.

We only quarrelled

amid the bubbles—

the Sunlight squeezed

out twice instead of thrice.

Think of a traffic

signal—only bobbing red & green.

It’s yellow with the

power to calm. Gleam like an

amber star, a warmth in

winter chill.

It’s a riddle why my

eyes will blink together,

why both my hands will lift

in supplication, to some gracious

triune God, or when I cheer

a netted puck—in our son’s

first game at centre,

two tongues to

say I love you

if I had them.

Andreas Gripp

January 12, 2026

RF Image