The Moth, or Channelling Chic Young

Nothing long-suffers

like love. Always coming

back despite her woe.

Stuffing her duffel

bag, stomping

out the door she’ll thud

behind her, loosed

from rusty hinges, while she

swears she’s had enough.

She’ll catch a

city bus outside its

route, reserved for the un-

consoled, one that does no

favours—not for you nor

Dagwood Bumstead:

face half-shaved with

foam, untied tie a motley

anaconda—laces like

some larvae yet to kiss, jouncing

in their failure to be fastened,

take to the sky when

called for,

and you like him

the boy who’s late for

school, dropping his

lunch & bucket to

the ground, flailing his frantic

arms to stop & pity—

tomorrow he’ll be on time—

vowing to love her better

though he won’t.

Despite it

she’ll acquiesce:

a postcard from

the beach in Monte

Carlo, tan lines like

the cusp of sun & cloud,

the dappled dawn of

mocha, scrawling

she misses you, all has

been forgotten,

sand wedged in

her fingers like the

grit between her toes

that’s yet to fall.

Andreas Gripp

July 1, 2026

Dagwood Bumstead, by Chic Young