Ordinary Day

poem by Dave Morrison

Walking to work he
looks like any anonymous
middle-aged mid-level
drone: year-old chinos he
pressed himself, a polo
shirt of some color or
another, putting one foot
in front of the other, home
behind him, work ahead,
a day like a thousand others;
he is living clip art, he is a
demographic, he is of a
certain group.
He is undercover.
In the space between the
headphone earpieces he
is someone invisible to
the casual eye: he has a
secret, he has a hundred
secrets, he is a one-man
sleeper cell, he is achingly
alive, he is unbeatable, he
is quiet genius, and in this
case he is in the first row
of a Stones show at the
El Mocambo; he knows
the band, he knows the
songs, he can play each
instrument, he is watching
Little Sister dance, and if
he were walking on a dusty
road he would leave no
footprints.
He is in this world but
not of it, he is taking up
space but not really here,
he is exactly what he appears
to be and yet incomprehensible,
he is Adam trudging through
Time and he has just pecked
his way out of his shell to
witness, for the first time,
this astonishing, lovely,
ordinary day.