World Donkey Day, or Braying on the 8th of May

Never mind the put-downs

or the jokes—that’s easily

spearing fish in a wooden

barrel.

Ne’er a politician

will appear in this silly

poem. Nor a

correlation

with its behind. Always

at the rear and the rear

itself.

I will not call him

Jack. Nor say he’s a

“poor man’s horse”—

though as Equus asinus,

it’s there in the family

tree.

There’s much that can be

noted regarding the

concave of his back—

the per contra of the

camel’s. I could

broach the load he’s had to

bear along the mountain—

always the final one

to get a drink, be offered

exhalation in the shade.

I’ll consider his humility—

carrying Christ

that palmful Sunday,

despite the ever-

knowing

the lauds belonged to Jesus

not to him, how quickly

the crowd can turn

by the end of the week.

Since then

he’s kept it meek,

unworthy of a name

when next to Shrek,

that his smile

has become unsightly—

ever-vexing—

burdened with the

joy which he’s been

scripted, after years of

conveying Eeyore’s

melancholy,

still expectant

of that bright & glorious

Day of His return—

when he’ll raise his lowly

eyes up to the sky,

hear the cheers

for his appellation, 

when the last shall be

first, indeed.

Andreas Gripp

May 8, 2025

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