View from the 7th Floor

Families have been

starving

both in Gaza and Sudan—

and yes, a bunch of other

places, and I’m complaining

my bananas

have been bruised.

I moan of lugging

groceries from the garage,

its pain of a parking

space—the measly

millimetre leeway,

how the elevator’s

sluggish when I need it the

very most. That there’s always

a lingering waft that’s

come from Fido’s

flatulence.

Their bones protrude

in Gaza and Sudan.

I cry I’ve wrenched

my back from

16 bags. The 12-pack

Alpha-getti; jars of

dill with pickles

3-for-1; the sack of starch

that could feed the

5^th brigade—its damning

“better deal” than

Rice-A-Roni.

There are orphans

in the gutter

both in Gaza and

Sudan.

I’d divvy the

discomfort

through the week—

but traffic is a

nightmare in this town.

Its reds timed

precedently

by Godot.

I’m sick of the

Wednesday flyers,

their boasts of gorilla

portions. Do I look like

the fucking Hulk?

Sisyphus 2.0? Shoulder to a

boulder

up the slope? Or perhaps

an alpinist—ascending

the Matterhorn? Yodel

as I put away

the eggs? Shit, they’re

cracked again. A

Humpty-Dumpty Special.

If I wanted a bloody

workout, I’d be

hauling Maytags

up the steps,

or that sofa bed

my friend’s too cheap

to chuck, wine stains

from the bedbugs’

jamboree;

or play the

Son of God,

stumbling through

the Via

Dolorosa,

heaving a wooden

beam like it’s a 4-

litre bag of milk,

watched by a

hungry urchin

on the curb, scrawny

hand extending

just to touch my

passing shadow.

Andreas Gripp

August 29, 2025

RF Image