The Clicktivist

I have a “friend”

who shares his heart

beneath the sun,

leaves emojis

for the wounded

from the succor

of his sofa, landing like an air-

drop from a drone,

leaving living bones

to vie for scraps.

He’s a lighthouse

saving no one

in the gleam of afternoon,

when the skipper’s

deep in slumber

in his hammock,

and the sea

a halcyon

pond; sails drooping

like the sag of

gustless flag.

He’s never been in

the midnight murk of

shoal, when even your hand’s

bereft of fingers

in your sight, and dilation

has done nada

for the mists of

black-on-black,

when the susurrate

has been seeping

from a shell—not a mollusk’s

vacant cavern

on the beach, but of mortar

in a sand

he’s never felt, gritty

like the pour from

Cream of Wheat,

without a drip

with which to mix,

a boom that

keeps him scrolling

on his app, the aww

from fuzz and fur,

saying he’s done his

bit now for the day.

Andreas Gripp

August 9, 2025

RF Image