In a story as old as time
A perfectly ordinary
Man
Wanted to be anything but.
Everyone knew he was perfectly ordinary.
He woke up each day in a perfectly ordinary
House.
He drove in a perfectly ordinary
Car
To his perfectly ordinary
Job
That he planned to hold until a perfectly ordinary
Retirement
In a perfectly ordinary
Part of the Sunshine State.

And yet this perfectly ordinary
Man
Dreamed of so much more.
Perhaps, said he, I’m a Mozart,
A Hemingway, a Van Gogh.
If only others could see that I’m not the
Perfectly ordinary
Man
That they all see in me.

So each day after work he greeted his perfectly ordinary
Family
Wolfed down his perfectly ordinary
Dinner
And went to his perfectly ordinary
Study
Where he worked on writing that was anything but
Perfectly ordinary - it was worse.
But that didn’t stop the perfectly ordinary
Man
For he knew within his soul that he was anything but
Perfectly ordinary.

So while this perfectly ordinary
Man
Spent his time trying to be something he wasn’t,
His perfectly ordinary
Wife,
His perfectly ordinary
Children,
Aged and grew as children and wives are known to do.

Until the perfectly ordinary
Man,
Pushed aside his worse than perfectly ordinary
Writing,
And realized that he has been ignoring the only souls in the universe to whom he was anything but a
Perfectly ordinary
Man.