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.