Siesta at 68

Perishing in your sleep

is the only route to

leave this mortal slinky.

It’s clear that no one wants

to die of suffocation;

consumed by fire or as

food, by that lion in its

cage which on its own

is a pretty miserable

place to cash your chips.

If given the choice

on how I bid you

toodle-oo, I’d sure as hell

wouldn’t opt for “natural 

causes,” just a neatly

shrouded betoken

for old age—

the dragging of the years

like a gall or kidney stone,

or a lump inside your breast,

furrowed like a raisin

from a box, sticky to the

touch like everything

else you’ll eat: jam & knockoff

syrup; honey in your tea;

then the grit of Metamucil

in your glass, needing some-

one else to swab the aftermath,

tell you that your crossword’s

upside-down,

though that’s not the

case in dreams—

where both you &

your string of letters

somersault in the air,

dentures turn to teeth

by which you’ll chomp on

peanut brittle,

like you did as an earnest

moppet, knowing your missing

pearly white would rise again,

like a Sunday morning Messiah,

who knew full well that

thorns & nails & wood was

just the shittiest way to go.

Andreas Gripp

November 8, 2025

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