Pocket watch in one hand

a fountain pen in the other

Fifteen minutes

set aside to steal

a mundane days recording

ink, like blood splattering

moments of an anyone’s day

on a maple leaved stationary

stationed unsteadily on his legs

incessant tapping

concrete echoes

muffled by a Persian rug

covering stains of an

an uncollected emesis

of his moth eaten mind

contained carefully

in leather bounded

dotted “i”s.



Nine hundred seconds

of the ordinary, simple things:

Like that of late night groceries.

Managing to find the last bottle

of two-percent milk, or

how the moon looked so crisp

in twenty two degree weather, or

how his phone’s cameras could

never do the sight a favour, or

how he dropped off a suit to the tailor


cut the left side of his jaw shaving because

the neighbors dog woke him two hours too early

or how, or how,

or how



How he knew at night when he felt many nothings

consumed by routine of an anyone’s ordinary


after many winters he would read and squint

with rose tinted spectacles near the fire pit

with pleasant nostalgia for the ordinary days

with the past and present in a final embrace


after every line of what once seemed dim

he would whisper with age’s quiet satisfaction:

I have lived. I h(am)ve ((a)live)d. I (will) have (live)d.

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