It’s pretty standard
to be able to have no good conversation
with more than one person.
It’s pretty standard to fall deep
into the holes on empty walls
It’s pretty standard to drift into minds
through their Friday-night faces
like the slow takeover of potassium permanganate in water;
only to stumble on sad giants
behind the careless compositions.
It’s pretty standard to see
smoke rising from the masses
in wisps of dusty regret on
minuscule things we never confess
or turn to face.
It’s pretty standard to catch yourself
slipping far too often
in the homeless spaces
It’s pretty standard to get
at least eight ice-cream headaches
per each small-talk, per each occasion.
It’s pretty standard to see others
lost and caught in the frost
but be too cold to reach
to touch a heart’s nest.