Every poet I adore
has written one-too-many
books. Filled with poems
which are insipid,
absent of spark &
fire, the fatigue
of wearied tropes,
as if the author
wouldn’t humbly
hang ‘em up, the grail of
one more shot,
an elusive Griffin win;
a fighter unable to
ponder a towel’s toss,
his boxing gloves a smear
of double red—more his
than his opponent’s,
staggering to his corner
after felled by a sudden
hook, like a bull
by a matador, stabbed—
avoiding the told-you-so
look from his trainer,
who pleaded he retire
while still perched
upon a pillar,
yielding to temptation
for another day of
pay, couldn’t resist the
lure
of a final taste of
glory, sprawled upon his
back upon the canvas, staring
at the ceiling like it’s
sky, like a bard awaiting birds
that wouldn’t show,
some coup-de-grâce
no longer in his reach.
Andreas Gripp
January 30, 2025
RF Image
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