The Neophyte

With my every endeavour

you comment

baby steps. It’s irksome

beyond conviction.

 

I attempt to master

French,

you blurt out baby steps.

Rest assured, pas de bébé

will be words I learn

from rote.

 

Elsewhere it’s Italian,

birthing spaghettini

from the scratch of

semolina. I serve it

past the semblance

of al dente, and though you

up my age—povero bambino—

the condescension lingers

like Romano. There’s enough

on my plate already

en Français.

 

I spit the flesh of

melon but not the seeds—

you chuckle baby steps.

Stick a soother

in my pout and

watch me seethe.

I’ll build a beanstalk

to the nimbi

if given time.

Jacques will have no

victoire over me.

 

I’ll do 50 reps of

push-ups for my climb.

Every squat a toddler’s

clumsy stride.

I’ll be so ripped

my face will be on

Gerber’s. I’ll eat nothing

but carrot mush.

And then when

I’m big & burly,

I’ll be beseeched

to land on Mars,

be Armstrong 2.0—

 

and you’ll still

be by my side, huddled

in the module,

the white of our clasping

knuckles tints of moon,

egging me on to take that

maiden leap, like a marionette

who’s snipped its tethered

strings, discard my training

wheels, race into a sunrise with

my wondrous, googly eyes.

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

July 19, 2026

photo: Trudy Wilkerson / Dreamstime