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

greige skies that spill unto the ground
I missed thee
solemn silence  filling my notions
an unrequited love.
originality, I never recognized your precious glow.
But here in this light now I know,
Now I know.

She loved to watch you dance high and low upon the trees.
Dripping with possibility-- your pure yet peculiar honey.

Like a parched flower floating at sea,
He cringed yet indulged me.
I have not one hope,  one goal but each two or three.
unrealistic, nonsensical, surely naïve.

Still I go forth with pen in hand. head in heart.
pushing and clawing through
This impossibly intolerable, simple world,
all designed by you.