Prophecy

Meh must be the

most boring word

in the history of

boring words.

Meh is the weary

lift of a turtle’s head,

knowing it’s one

more false alarm

amid the sirens.

It’s the race of

slug & sloth, celery

awaiting the winner

in fifteen years.

It’s hour number

three of your college

lecture, the one about

the strata, earth’s early

bacterium, when you wish

you’d fled the room—

while the professor’s

back was turned, his snap of

broken chalk

that froze your feet.

It’s the bland, lukewarm

rotisserie, the white

of milk & meat, the chicken

who insists

he isn’t scared, his shrug

outside the house

you swear is haunted.

You know it’s all an act:

the feigning of disinterest,

the stretch & yawn of cats,

who plop back into bed

while Jerusalem begins to

quake, yet another

Second Coming they’ve been

warned is a thief in the night.

Andreas Gripp

December 5, 2025

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