The Wall, or A Humdrum Lesson in Cacti

You’ve one-upped

my joke on

boredom. And now my smirk 

has been exfoliated

from my face.

Sure, you’d rather watch the

paint—not to dry

but to chip and

spall then plummet—

like a corn flake

to a bowl.

We agree it was

the dullest cereal around

back in the day.

Cheap because we

snoozed right through

our breakfast—while our dad

was docked an hour

for being late.

Grass will grow

a snippet every morning.

And the swallows

swoop to visit.

Glidden? It takes its

time to reach

aridity—but the worst is even

better—they’ve made it

too damn good.

Lasts a quarter-

century—the listless

clerk will tell us. But

that’s merely its

genesis:

for your science friend has prattled

it takes seven million

years to complete the receding

it undertakes. That’s at least three-plus

trillion yawns. Longer than

glacial melt. Slower than parting

plates. I imagine by then

the ennui you’re ducking out of

could hardly be as bad as

that: Grandma’s clock that

grates with every tic.

Uncle mumbling

the stocks from ’92.

The neighbour

sighing yep upon the couch

that has no pattern.

And you with the family

Vulgate, perusing the Book of

Numbers, while Newman’s

Calculus awaits in

the batter’s box, your sweat

like a seeping

saguaro in endless  

sand. And it’s this, you’ll boast,

that’s funny. So goddamn,

motherfucking funny.

Andreas Gripp

July 8, 2026

photo: Antonio Guillem / Dreamstime