We’ve driven down
this street for seven
ages & haven’t seen them.
A diamond
sign that lies. Or maybe
out-of-date by
a country mile.
Kids on Phones would
be more apropos—
hinting we should
creep at a loris’
pace—they’ll never
see us coming
thanks to Apple.
I’m Methuselah-
enough to think of
Beatles. Or maybe
Eden’s garden,
a sluggish serpent/snake.
They’ll step in
front of our Audi—
every gaze is
drooped—like flowers
in the crack of
pavement where
the rain has failed to reach.
And such are they—
missing the gift of
water all around them—
a creamy May
magnolia, drops of dew
on webs,
burnets bobbed in air—
like boats
against a billow—
clouds in a three-
legged dash.
Eyes of four are
needed in this era—
two to see us coming—
winking to acknowledge—
and a pair to see how
Amber Dawn is garbed on
Instagram—shorts pulled
to her hips, too soon
to boast of thighs,
& LaMarcus on his skateboard
in a tumble—headfirst
in the roses
that he never knew were there,
the scrape of thorns to
scream he’s still alive,
like we whenever
the cat has had
enough of our inertia on
the couch, gaping through a
glass that’s not the
window we haven’t wiped in
20 years.
Andreas Gripp
June 22, 2026
Photo of Slow Loris (The Pollination Project)
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