nobody writes poetry about the banal
the ticking clocks and coffee drips
clicked buttons and phones ringing
white walls with greige carpet
waiting in lines for daily tedium
this is where we spend most our time
existing in between the magical
skimming edges of something beautiful
our existence both mundane yet unparalleled
I feel grateful for every tea ring in my mug
pages of old books I will never read
time spent waiting for replies
or watching paint dry on canvas
because this sliver of existence
brief and bland though it may be
can occur only once at this very moment
and our fleeting mortality is extraordinary