The Leaf Blower

Bro has got

his blower out

again. It rages

like a Harley a

mote away. I wager that

he waits until

I’ve tallied the final

ewe

before he’s revving up

his demon once again.

5:55

a.m. is no man’s land.

The night

begets its slumber.

The dawn

before its yawn

to cue its shift.

Calm’s unwritten

law & understanding.

He’ll do anything to

breed my aggravation.

Envisages the

clenching of my

teeth & promptly chuckles.

My dental bill’s been

doubled since he moved into

his hovel next to mine.

I can hardly

wait till winter when

he’s mulching half a nano-

gram of snow—showing

off his raucous

Toro Max.

I will pay him

back some day.

Find out if he

listens to Zamfir.

Blast my AC/DC

in his direction—shatter

his fucking pan flute

like it’s glass.

His socks will step on

splinters, the ones he buys in

bulk from Dollar Tree.

He’ll rue the day

he cheaped on plastic

muffs. Hell will toll its bells.

A cacophony

that will haunt him

while he’s googling for

the nearest mausoleum,

as if its walls

are never thumped on from

within, as if the corpses are

reposed in contemplation,

blissed by a

slinking mouse who’s

just a whisker from

their drawers.

Andreas Gripp

June 18, 2026

photo by Trevor Wallace