The Ring

You don’t really

need to take a

vow for better.

Only just for worse.

No one has to give

an oath for richer—

the jet skis, the chalets,

that house on the Riviera,

pouring champagne on

your morning Oatie-O’s.

It’s the poorer

that entices you to

leave; upon that

shitty futon full of fleas,

your stomach all a-

rumble from that slice

from Quickie-Mart,

knowing it spun all after-

noon beneath the lamp,

waving to the wieners

which you’ll down for lunch

next day.

In health you’ll leap &

run, rolling in the leaves

with your belovѐd,

in the gold of an Autumn

day.

In sickness

you will think it’s time

to flee, hop onto

the red-eye to Québec,

dream of some garçon

or mademoiselle,

thunder under the

covers, know nothing of

pain & meds;

but temptation is

a fleeting thing, doesn’t stick

around like love & promise;

and you’ll slump by the

hospital bed, pray the

flatline starts to bump,

hold her fragile hand

like you did that

distant day, remove

her wedding band,

note the blanch

amid the tan,

place it on again

in the hope she’ll stay.

Andreas Gripp

November 4, 2025

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