Your father
walked in downpours
with The Times
upon his head. Never
once unfolded.
It was cheaper than
an umbrella. A much
better use
of the trees.
I think I see him
now, as the gusts
snatch fedoras
from the others, their
scalps more skin
than hair, more lagoon
than tropic isle, grateful
he’d never
splurged, never travelled
with his wife
no matter how
the papers prodded,
and that War!
was now a leak
into the sewer,
to be mastered
by its stench,
along with the
daily funnies
that never were,
the box score
from another
Cubbies loss,
and a memorial
for your mum
he never read, her lot
now cast with the
surge of printer’s
ink,
a recipe for
Sülze
that none of you
could stand,
not even Klaus
the family dog
(if but an hour) , who
upchucked all its scraps,
runover
the very day
you brought him home,
after responding
to an ad
beneath your mother’s
horoscope,
vowing today
will be the luckiest
one of all.
Andreas Gripp
February 6, 2025
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