Wite-Out, or Caffeine to Go

I’ve started to blame

autocorrect

for everything.

When the officer

pulls me over,

blowing past the

stop sign at the corner,

I tell him it told me shop,

with the plaza just

beyond it

beckoning.

If I forget what

you told me to get,

I’ll gift a flower

to remember me by,

that the flour

I should have snagged

is clearly unromantic.

You’ll ask me to order

pizza 2-for-1. I’ll explain

autocorrect only offered

1-for-2, pepper supplanting

your belovѐd pepperoni,

sneezing out our candles

bawling wax.

They’ve always been

overly sensitive, these paltry

ruffled flames—

which flee at the slightest

breath, without excuse

for their cowardly ways.

At least I have a reason

for my fuckups.

I’d been longing

for the world

that up & flew,

when I had to smother

my mistakes with

Liquid Paper;

and whilst its label

read flammable,

it never changed my words

without my knowing.

But now I embrace this way

of morphing words.

I will never sin again

while it is here—scheming,

ever-plotting,

mischievous

mini-Satan

that it is, wreaking havoc

on every christened

cup of coffee,

on every groggy Stan

who only wants what

morning owes him.

Andreas Gripp

January 2, 2026  

RF Image