Triage, or Cursing Samuel Beckett in July, or 96 Hours in Emerg

Your patience is a virtue

is wearing thin,

making me grind my

molars 'til they’re smoothed

like lakeshore stones:

They’ve been carried by the waves

a million years; will grin

when you pitch them back.

I see things differently—

for the train forever

shunting to either shit

or get off the pot;

for the person in

Express to drop & die,

cashing 66 lotto

tix: Winner! Gagnon!

as our ice cream

mirrors climate and

briskly melts;

my evoking an

undertaker,

to join you by your

side should I be leaving—

St. Swithin’s, you cramped

in a plastic chair

for four long days,

asking the porter

to bring you snacks

while I was sleeping, preserve

your spot in queue,

wondering why

that patient word 

has extra letters—

superfluous, redundant,

trѐs extrême;

the pinky toe you

stubbed now lightly

throbbing, saying you’re Vladimir—

to my Estragon, of course,

awaiting a

lagging whitecoat

to finally make his way to

you before the snow.

Andreas Gripp

September 23, 2025

RF Image