You’ve one-upped
my joke on
boredom. And now my smirk
has been exfoliated
from my face.
Sure, you’d rather watch the
paint—not to dry
but to chip and
spall then plummet—
like a corn flake
to a bowl.
We agree it was
the dullest cereal around
back in the day.
Cheap because we
snoozed right through
our breakfast—while our dad
was docked an hour
for being late.
Grass will grow
a snippet every morning.
And the swallows
swoop to visit.
Glidden? It takes its
time to reach
aridity—but the worst is even
better—they’ve made it
too damn good.
Lasts a quarter-
century—the listless
clerk will tell us. But
that’s merely its
genesis:
for your science friend has prattled
it takes seven million
years to complete the receding
it undertakes. That’s at least three-plus
trillion yawns. Longer than
glacial melt. Slower than parting
plates. I imagine by then
the ennui you’re ducking out of
could hardly be as bad as
that: Grandma’s clock that
grates with every tic.
Uncle mumbling
the stocks from ’92.
The neighbour
sighing yep upon the couch
that has no pattern.
And you with the family
Vulgate, perusing the Book of
Numbers, while Newman’s
Calculus awaits in
the batter’s box, your sweat
like a seeping
saguaro in endless
sand. And it’s this, you’ll boast,
that’s funny. So goddamn,
motherfucking funny.
Andreas Gripp
July 8, 2026
photo: Antonio Guillem / Dreamstime
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