Bro has got
his blower out
again. It rages
like a Harley a
mote away. I wager that
he waits until
I’ve tallied the final
ewe
before he’s revving up
his demon once again.
5:55
a.m. is no man’s land.
The night
begets its slumber.
The dawn
before its yawn
to cue its shift.
Calm’s unwritten
law & understanding.
He’ll do anything to
breed my aggravation.
Envisages the
clenching of my
teeth & promptly chuckles.
My dental bill’s been
doubled since he moved into
his hovel next to mine.
I can hardly
wait till winter when
he’s mulching half a nano-
gram of snow—showing
off his raucous
Toro Max.
I will pay him
back some day.
Find out if he
listens to Zamfir.
Blast my AC/DC
in his direction—shatter
his fucking pan flute
like it’s glass.
His socks will step on
splinters, the ones he buys in
bulk from Dollar Tree.
He’ll rue the day
he cheaped on plastic
muffs. Hell will toll its bells.
A cacophony
that will haunt him
while he’s googling for
the nearest mausoleum,
as if its walls
are never thumped on from
within, as if the corpses are
reposed in contemplation,
blissed by a
slinking mouse who’s
just a whisker from
their drawers.
Andreas Gripp
June 18, 2026
photo by Trevor Wallace
No comments:
Post a Comment