Spines, or Assumptions for a Sunday Afternoon

There is always

something said of rising

smoke. There is fire.

But it might just be

my camel’s cigarette.

No, you read that right.

I’m not a shill for

Camel, their burning cancer

sticks my parents

smoked.

I mean the one

I’d ridden home

from the Gobi Desert.

There’s no other

valid reason

to visit the Gobi.

Not for the superfluous

sand. How it gets in your

every orifice.

I’m not gonna bother to

tell you how we crossed

the Atlantic Ocean. It’s already clear 

you don’t believe me.

But he’s there in my garage

if you’d like to look,

puffing away like a funnel.

The added stress

of double humps. Having to deal

with couples—bickering on his

back like no tomorrow.

Assuming he’s never thirsty,

an awkward, walking cactus

sans the needles.

Some days he’s wished

he had them. None to ride his

ass into the dunes,

beneath a smokeless, 

incendiary ball

that wields no mercy.

Andreas Gripp

October 17, 2025

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