the reason I forked two grand to fix my shocks

The man who works for

the city is clearly a poet.

Watch him as he skirts the

jagged potholes on the road.

For him they are

a mimicry of moon. Craters to

fill with trope and not with tar.

Eye him as his hose

sucks all the chaff up

from the sewer—an elephant

at the edge of a

watering hole—cognizant of

predation

yet awise it needs to drink.

How can a behemoth

be affrighted by a mouse?

Look again—the Norway

rat placed gently on the lawn.

If it’s unworthy of love,

then how can we tell our

children of the light?

Its big bang burst of

fervour? This is why creation’s

mostly space, he’ll smugly proffer.

Where else could it catch its

wheezing breath? He’ll add

we die much sooner

from our thirst than lack of food.

From the gasp of

suffocation

before our throats

declare a drought.

To asphyxiate is to

drown in gales of air.

The laying down of asphalt

is the mote in a child’s eye.

You’ll ask him what that means

and he’ll merely shrug.

A magician never divulges

what they’ve learned. Neither a

would-be minstrel. If there are

no secrets left,

how will we ponder the

pits he’s left behind?

It’s how I bathe the birds

once it has rained. 

Why I write of cloudburst

when it’s dry.

What will you tell

the mechanic once you’re there?

What you might scream is

broke she’ll say is fixed.

What we call sick is healed.

We seldom see the earth

beneath the tarmac.

Note the writhe of life

below our gold & ivory lines.

Andreas Gripp

May 18, 2026

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