Nobody admires the fine weaving
of a spider’s web, which floats
desolately
between the rusty beams of the
beloved rickety bleachers
so heavily worshipped on Autumn’s Friday nights.
Nobody speaks for the girl
whose mirror isn’t impressed,
whose teachers aren’t impressed,
whose only impressions can be dedicated
to her aching feet
as she meanders through the woods
with her forgotten shoes.
Nobody thanks each grain of sand
on the coast of California
for the glorious beach
even though that beach
would be no beach
or at least a broken beach
without each and every
irreplaceable, indispensable
grain of sand.
Nobody sees the middle
because the beginning is too memorable,
because the end is too mesmerizing,
because even the miracles are
obscured
being lost among the mediocrities
of the middle.