Popsicles, or The Architect’s Son

You’re drunk on

gin again. Claiming

you’re designing

the world’s tallest building ,

in the dirt of

his own backyard,

that the heavens’

Burj Khalifa

will be cringing

in its shadow.

The only thing remaining

is his shed, leaning

like a Pisan belfry. A rusty

tool emporium.

He made you

trim the hedges

with your scissors;

dice the dormant, green-

less grass

with a pocket knife.

Such a disappointment

he would say—

of you, your sketches,

your job

with the Dickie Dee.

At 40 years of age.

It’s been in the works

for decades,

you boast between

the swigs. You’ve kept

10,000 sticks

inside your cupboards,

say you’ll make them soar

with yellow UHU,

3750 in the air,

affixed to the rotting

roof

like a Gotham spire,

posing a bigger

threat to God

than Babel’s Tower,

a second, single

language, in the glow of

receding ice, in its blue and

orange tongue,

the child you

say you were—

never-ever

mounting to a thing,

there beside your

high-chair in the

kitchen,

licking as fast

as you humanly

could.

Andreas Gripp

September 6, 2025

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