After the Applause

 

We assumed that he was

rude when he never clapped.

Even the maestro

glared his way.

A handshake never proffered.

Flowers never jutting

from his fingers. Fingers

never peeking from his sleeve—

a brood of stunted pupae—

shy kids much too scared

to step on stage.

 

Some surmised thalidomide.

Or he’d never found the right

prosthetic. Possibly the

left. Even from the start he’d

push the abacus with his nose.

Olly Olly Oxen

never freed. Unable to

tag another. Scribe that

you were loved.

Thumbed the doorbell

with his ear. Chimed

your valentine.

 

You say you saw him naked

by mistake. But nothing’s

done in err

when it comes to that—

he wanted you to

see what wasn’t lost. To watch

him on the roof. Squawking

he can fly without a feather.

Shoulders miming elbows

miming wings. Talons

for his toes. Our dearest

Daedalus. The guise of

Cupid’s ghost—

 

as if we’d somehow catch him

in the fullness

of our arms. As if he

wouldn’t sever into

jetsam, adding to the

infinity of his puzzle.

A single piece for

you; two for every

wonder of his world.

 

 

 

 

Andreas Gripp

March 15, 2026