You’d never sworn
before in your life,
no matter the pain
from the hammer on your
thumb;
the dolts who
cut you off
in traffic; that time
you dropped the roses
on the floor—splash of water
and splintered vase.
You’ve never uttered
the Name of the Lord
in vain, never added Murphy—
or Mary and Joseph too;
never snuck in scheisse!—
even when apropos,
never taking a chance
that there’s a German
within an ear-shot;
and you’ve never
used the expletive
that precedes the word off.
So please pardon
my surprise, my
utter astonishment,
when you winced
after that first
taste of beer,
on the patio
at the club,
saying—very audibly—
it’s piss warm,
akin to a colour
in the rainbow,
its arc toward
the ground,
the relief you feel
when you’ve waited so
long on the highway,
encircled by
squalling sirens in the
sun,
unable to think
of anything else,
even with the vehicle ahead
all aflame.
Andreas Gripp
July 8, 2024
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