The website says
this poem takes a minute
to read—well, if you’re
an auctioneer, perhaps.
A poem is not
the climax of a thriller,
where Poirot
has solved the crime,
everything tied-
up in little bows.
It’s not the ticker-
tape of stocks,
the scores that flash
from baseball’s
night before,
and it’s not an
Archie comic,
the duh of lumbering
Moose,
Veronica’s
shallow depth
compared to Betty,
the laughs behind
Mr. Weatherbee’s
portly back.
But then Big Ethel
has never been loved,
sees her future
in old Miss Grundy,
unable to win the
heart of even Jughead,
losers in every
universe that there
are,
that when you reach
for the bottom rung
you come up empty—
in terms of love,
in terms of life,
in terms of a poem
you’ve read in only
60 seconds.
Andreas Gripp
September 9, 2024
RF Image
Comments