Average Poem by Smoky Hoss

There's billions of us
out here.
The fair, the usual, the mundane masses, and
the worst descriptor of all:
the normal.
We're nothing special.
Nothing to look at, to talk about.
Nothing to raise a glass and toast over, no
we will never be kings, conquerors,
queens or lovely saints;
Soon after we are gone
we are forgotten
like misplaced linen, once comfortably useful,
easily replaced.
Like a fading dream, that upon waking
one wonders if there is a purpose to,
but soon forgets the details of.
We're not bad guys,
nor especially good, we're
just us - that's all.
It's not our fault really,
we we're thrown crying into
this mindless milieu
of routine ordinariness.
Unlucky? Perhaps.
Screwed over? Possibly.
Forgotten? Probably.
But, most likely just here
to simply pass the time,
to turn with the earth, and
alleviate someone's boredom a bit.
It's nothing but a thing,
No one's fault (certainly not our own)
no collusion, no covert operation here,
just the way things go. - But,
if by chance or by design
one gets lucky enough
to just once, truly cry and laugh
at the same time
- like the sun breaking through a rain cloud -
then, just for that brief moment,
for us the lowly,
a reprieve, a glory, a reason.
There, then,
God smiles and winks
and let's us consider;
Maybe there is something
to all of this after all... And
being average, as it turns out,
is not a curse.