Osaka

I think I’ve had enough

of our know-it-all

acquaintance.

He’d be another friend

if he wasn’t such a dick.

Just today, in the

hallway for example,

after I mumbled

about the swallow

in the soffit,

how the raptors

hadn’t scales

but pretty plumage:

Well, birds aren’t only

DESCENDED from dinosaurs—

they ARE dinosaurs.

Which to me is ridiculous.

Tell me to my face

that the goldfinch in your

hand belongs in the latest

Jurassic World. That the seed

which she is eating

is akin to Ankylosaurus,

hard as fucking armor,

that its beak could break

a 4-by-4 in two.

But I bite my tongue

so I won’t have to bear

his smarmy condescension.

It bleeds as if a T-Rex

chomped its bit.

I’m in no condition now

to give rebuttal, my

Godzilla similitude—

warbling like a nuthatch

every morning;

stomping his way

through buildings as

he sings. Burning

this fellow to cinders

where he stands,

my cheering

that is muffled

by his roar, swelling

like a pillow

with all its feathers

down my throat.

Andreas Gripp

June 6, 2025

RF Image