The Incident, or The Proboscis

Incident

is a funny duck of a

word.

It can mean a clean-up

in aisle 7, the spill from a

bag of salt. Your fear

it will be re-

taped, sold with a dollar

off. How do can you be sure

it wasn’t sugar?

There’s another

“ongoing incident”

at school. Eleven mowed

down in class. The shooter

acting out his manifesto.

Bullets darting by

like killer bees.

The keeper who is stung

is just an incident. The wear

of her crumpled suit. Bought

at TJ Maxx. Perhaps for Hallowe’en.

The holes in her mask

metastasized. It’s happened

to fencers, too.

There’s been an incident

at the reactor. Look at Chernobyl

now. Its dwellings

slicked with green. A poem

its sole reward.

This ode is incidental—

lacking a gotcha strophe.

Something ever-

vapid; no hint of trѐs unique,

nothing penned in blood,

merely a fly

atop the garbage,

your poodle’s un-scooped

turd, the exposure of its

tongue in midday sun,

its fleeing at your shoo!

The worry it will land

inside your burger, timed

to your initial bite, with that

very same appendage

in its mouth, tasting

what was yours, absconding

with just a nod of recompense.

Andreas Gripp

September 29, 2025

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