Waiting Room

You don’t have to do anything magnificent to live

You could start by waking up just to fall asleep again

Or by pouring yourself a cup of breakfast tea

The weary breaths drawn by our feeble attempts to get through the day

The Venetian blinds dicing weak light from outside

And the seats with elbow rests, one for two chairs

You don’t have to do anything magnificent to live

You could find an old book to keep you company

Or make a phone call to your grandma

The faces of varying hues, bags beneath old eyes

The corner with primary colored toys, germ infested and never-changing

And the penny loafers nervously shifting on short carpet

You don’t have to do anything magnificent to live

You could tell me about the small town you grew up in

Or your first kiss in the front seat of a blue Jeep

The chatter over what’s happening at church this weekend

The grumpy old man browsing Sports Illustrated

And the clock ticking toward three in the afternoon

You don’t have to do anything magnificent to live

You could sit here and wait for a miracle

Or draw a line in the sand and step over it