On Our Jubilee

At this stage, I cannot give you

chocolates in our abode.

They would go fondue

in a matter of minutes—

the apartment at 92 degrees.

Our matching

fuchsia sweaters? Swollen

at the waist, like a pair of

stretched balloons, pregnant

with the air. My belt has

snapped again. Now everyone

thinks I’m Amish in suspenders.

My strawhat hardly helps.

Blossoms would

simply slump

within their vase,

like you by the end of

cribbage. At least I

stay awake, stroke your thinning

hair as you retire. But still

you’re humming You Don’t Bring Me

Flowers in a passive-aggressive

way.

Our bed springs

are like new. Have yet

to kangaroo. Sweep you

off your feet? That was pre-Yahoo

chat. The days of wine &

mullets. Ozempic’s not the same.

What I can do, is take our corn broom

to the kitchen, clean the

floor of crumbs

I couldn’t bend and toss away;

spare you from the pain.

Our cellophane’s

now for noses

not for roses. Your lipstick

doesn’t recognize my face—

as if a mugger in a

copshop line. Criminals

look alike when they

are pruned. Pick the raisin

from the bowl that did the deed.

Our evenings? Would rival

Rip Van Winkle’s.

Watching the wallpaper

fade is about as Indiana

Jones as we can get.

But there’s still a single

glass upon the counter—

there to serve us both—

this exchanging of our germs,

without wince or hesitation.

Like the time we traded

dentures, laughed ourselves

to sleep. Silly, hopeless

romantics that we are.

Andreas Gripp

October 31, 2026

photograph: Dunca Daniel / Dreamstime