This carny is a smarmy
huckster. Uses shells once
home to snails.
Swiped their only domicile.
Even the pea feels guilt.
He’s the realtor keeping
mum about a murder.
Boasts about location.
A public school adjacent.
We’ll see its boarded windows—
he’ll say it’s only closed
for renovations. Will reopen
slicked in tech.
We’ll wonder about the
other houseless laggards.
He’ll say it’s evolution.
That the French prefer
the crunch of vacant husks.
My mind depicts the one
that slipped away, with its sludge
like a portmanteau,
a salmon through a
netting’s only slit,
obsessed with its sense
of abode;
or the lamb which left
the others of its flock,
wise to the wiles of the wolf—
a slimy, faux messiah,
hauling his every hardship
on their shoulders.
Andreas Gripp
August 28, 2026
photograph: Kangah / iStock
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