The Tartans

You’ve heard your kid’s

6-7, deliberately vague

but not. It’s just

a passing phase 

your mother said

and she should know.

She walked in Scottish

plaid in ’75-

‘76, just as Rollermania

had dropped into the

schoolyard. Wedged

between the days of

rock and disco.

I say I thought they

sucked, the Bay City

Rollers, who’d never even

set a tartaned leg

in Michigan, especially

S-a-

       t-u-r-

                d-a-y

    Night!

You tell me that

six-seven is

utter guff. It’ll last

until it’s merched.

Until their grandmas

take it over

and it’s the antithesis

of cool, hip, groovy;

when nary one

will say it again,

propelled into

the lacuna of

fallen words, before

we’ve deciphered the

code, if it’s the derision of

you’re actually minus one,

notched below the

zero; or an unlucky

13 at life;

or maybe it has nothing remotely

to do with mathematics.

I never knew a kid

who liked its problems:

Jenny has

a half-dozen

roses. Banks them on

a roll of loaded

dice. If it comes up

three and four

what has she won?

What has she lost?

Is it more traumatic

than having never loved at all?

Andreas Gripp

November 2, 2025

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