This is the first
time we’ve been here
since 9/11. The seedling that
was planted
gives us shade. The toddler
who kicked our ball
might be a surgeon. The ins &
outs of brains.
The infant in a
stroller’s given birth. Maybe that is her
behind the swings, pushing
both her twins who’ll
live forever.
You tell me I’m mistaken.
We were here in 2010—
albeit half-an-hour.
The sun had melt our lollies.
A woman who was pregnant
said hello. Her stomach
like a wet balloon.
Her child by now is
out there driving reckless. The rush of
fentanyl. Or maybe he’s
already in the clink. His first & second
murders are behind him. As for the third,
it will occur in 2040
while he’s out. But today is not
the morrow. The girl
who’s in a car seat’s
overheating. We’re the ones
who club the windshield, scold
the teenaged mum. Not much older
than her daughter
on that evening
she goes missing.
By then we’ll bob in rockers;
skim the morning
paper on our porch. Tired of the
tech that made us age. A story on
page 11. Her Nikes by the river
which were stained. Her body
a cacophony of bruise.
His arraignment
at the court house
once a nook we mourned the dead.
Andreas Gripp
September 4, 2026
photograph: Jupiter Images
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