Nothing long-suffers
like love. Always coming
back despite her woe.
Stuffing her duffel
bag, stomping
out the door she’ll thud
behind her, loosed
from rusty hinges, while she
swears she’s had enough.
She’ll catch a
city bus outside its
route, reserved for the un-
consoled, one that does no
favours—not for you nor
Dagwood Bumstead:
face half-shaved with
foam, untied tie a motley
anaconda—laces like
some larvae yet to kiss, jouncing
in their failure to be fastened,
take to the sky when
called for,
and you like him
the boy who’s late for
school, dropping his
lunch & bucket to
the ground, flailing his frantic
arms to stop & pity—
tomorrow he’ll be on time—
vowing to love her better
though he won’t.
Despite it
she’ll acquiesce:
a postcard from
the beach in Monte
Carlo, tan lines like
the cusp of sun & cloud,
the dappled dawn of
mocha, scrawling
she misses you, all has
been forgotten,
sand wedged in
her fingers like the
grit between her toes
that’s yet to fall.
Andreas Gripp
July 1, 2026
Dagwood Bumstead, by Chic Young
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