Wings, or Overkill, or The Spirit of ‘76

It’s the proverbial

sledgehammer/fly,

a Captain Hook

who’s gashed by his little

itch, his cheek now

lined by his lapse

of memory.

You call it over-

kill. The lashing of

the Lord. No—not the

flogging at the pillar

but the tables over-

turned just days before.

This is

My Father’s House.

Today a trillion

steeples.

Hiroshima

was a flyby

gone extreme. The

enemy in ashes. The

scarring of their shadows

steeped on steps.

It’s my daft

alliteration. The draft

of a poem that surely

shouldn’t rhyme.

Do you see a silly rhyme?

A sappy tune of love?

This isn’t at the speed of sound.

I’ll stick it in the drawer

with no rejection.

Our bellbottoms

didn’t chime.

A tongue has never had

the proper credit. Without

it there’s no song. Its voice

so strong

it cracks its lip like an egg.

Andreas Gripp

September 29, 2025

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