3 poems by Gregg Shapiro

Origami

1. 
The chicken in his jokes always crosses the road, never gets
to the other side. Isn't that where I am, I ask, in the middle 
of the road? Doing the traffic two-step, waiting for the eternal 
light to turn red. He never honks when he comes up from 
behind, spins me like a weathervane in a Midwestern tornado. 
 
2. 
I think in these terms: what if, what not, what else. The lights 
in the Cooper Street apartment seem to dim and brighten 
by themselves. I've seen that movie too, you know. 
 
3. 
The snow never melts here. It just becomes ice 
cream. We sprinkle handfuls of sugar on it, watch 
the white get whiter. Then we shovel it into our gaping 
pink mouths, swallow it before it has a chance to melt 
on our tongues. We massage our temples to alleviate 
the delightful ache behind our eyes, from such a lethal treat. 
 
4. 
I only read the newspaper because I love the sound the pages 
make when I turn them. Otherwise, I'd rather line the bird cage 
with it. Make confetti or do origami. 

The End Closes in Like A Storm

Comes up from behind, taps me on the shoulder. 
Politely asks for directions like a tourist. How to 
get to the tip of the city, a southern extremity.
 
Where they're shutting down a factory, plugging 
up a leak in the system. A job to be finished, 
carried out. Executed like a dance step, a bow. 
 
Limited vocabulary, use of speech. Hands fumble, 
fingers latch on to signs of expression. Words 
stop up my throat, fill my cheeks. Slam against 
 
my gums and teeth. Lips sealed like a letter. I can 
only conclude it's over, wait for the credits to roll 
on the screen, the word, finis, to appear in bold face.

Tentative Hold

The concept of reality escapes him like air 
from a balloon. He's still carrying around 
manufactured injuries from childhood. Every noise 

an echo reverberating in the high-ceilinged chambers 
of his memory. He leaves fingerprints in his lies, then 
retraces his steps, covering his tracks along the way. 

He is too fragile, jerked, bounced and shaken, spun 
around by the ghosts of his imagination. Shadows 
overwhelm him; he could drown in his own blood. 

---

Gregg Shapiro is the author of eight books including the forthcoming poetry collection Fear of Muses (Souvenir Spoon Books, 2022). Recent/forthcoming lit-mag publications include The Penn Review, Exquisite Pandemic, RFD, Gargoyle, Limp Wrist, Mollyhouse, and Impossible Archetype. An entertainment journalist, whose interviews and reviews run in a variety of regional LGBTQ+ and mainstream publications and websites, Shapiro lives in Fort Lauderdale, Florida with his husband Rick and their dog Coco.