Greg Jr Torres Poet Ballad

Shapes

Shapes

Different shapes were 
stick on the wall. All 
made from paper, though the 
powdery texture will make 
you wonder if they were 
plasters. Circles inside 
the squares. Triangles 
linked to form chains. You 
sat at the couch. Waiting 
for your turn. The lady 
receptionist near the 
window gave you a frown. 
The magazines, untouched, 
transforms long wait to 
boredom. The people in line 
are chained with a 
monotonous ticking of the 
clock. Some took a nap. 
Some just stared blank. You 
joined them half-way. You 
neither asleep nor awake, 
caught between the gaps of 
the distant wall. You 
talking to yourself, or a 
daydream, as a race from 
start to finish, delays, 
pit stops, and advances, a 
loud horn from a nearby 
alley and someone breaking 
glasses from the other 
room, closing in, noise 
echoing from walls, 
ceilings, like a second-
hand smoke, as if to tell 
you that not all diseases 
are self-inflicted, you 
with your left hand hidden 
in your pocket. All you can 
do is to glance at the 
wall, examine the shapes, 
draw them with your 
fingers, repeatedly, until 
the last one.

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