Sick Day

The worst thing you can do

is murmur your little secrets to

the Wind.

It gave away my “illness”

to the principal

by his window—my kite became

a chopper

flashing lights into his office.

Despite my pleading

keep it below the trees.

I told its fickle bluster

I was going for the bleachers—

a cannon shot

beyond the outfield fence. Not only

did it signal to the catcher—

the swing I had in mind—

it began to howl

in the opposite direction—

the shortstop

had a breeze

with the stunted pop-up.

It promised to keep my

hair in place

when I confessed my plan

to perm. It’s a gossiping

little shit

throughout the halls. I can

still hear hey sheepdog!—

to this very day.

And now it begs to trust it,

asking the reason why

I’m traipsing up to Kellie’s—

with kaleidoscopic

blooms—that would shame

the coat of Joseph, a drunken

Dublin rainbow, or even a

peacock’s plumes;

my petals swirling madly

before I make it to her porch;

a dust devil—daubing the sight

of all—my lamenting why it couldn’t

hold its breath a minute longer,

just had to spring the zipper,

open its big fat

fucking mouth. 

Andreas Gripp

October 22, 2026

photograph: Tom Werner / Getty Images