At this stage, I cannot give you
chocolates in our abode.
They would go fondue
in a matter of minutes—
the apartment at 92 degrees.
Our matching
fuchsia sweaters? Swollen
at the waist, like a pair of
stretched balloons, pregnant
with the air. My belt has
snapped again. Now everyone
thinks I’m Amish in suspenders.
My strawhat hardly helps.
Blossoms would
simply slump
within their vase,
like you by the end of
cribbage. At least I
stay awake, stroke your thinning
hair as you retire. But still
you’re humming You Don’t Bring Me
Flowers in a passive-aggressive
way.
Our bed springs
are like new. Have yet
to kangaroo. Sweep you
off your feet? That was pre-Yahoo
chat. The days of wine &
mullets. Ozempic’s not the same.
What I can do, is take our corn broom
to the kitchen, clean the
floor of crumbs
I couldn’t bend and toss away;
spare you from the pain.
Our cellophane's
now for noses
not for roses. Your lipstick
doesn’t recognize my face—
as if a mugger in a
copshop line. Criminals
look alike when they
are pruned. Pick the raisin
from the bowl that did the deed.
Our evenings? Would rival
Rip Van Winkle’s.
Watching the wallpaper
fade is about as Indiana
Jones as we can get.
But there’s still a single
glass upon the counter—
there to serve us both—
this exchanging of our germs,
without wince or hesitation.
Like the time we traded
dentures, laughed ourselves
to sleep. Silly, hopeless
romantics that we are.
Andreas Gripp
October 31, 2026
photograph: Dunca Daniel / Dreamstime
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