Ode To A Mediocre Man

If I shut my eyes I can sort of picture your face, I guess.

I don’t know. 

Your face resembles a lot of other faces.

It could be someone else’s face I’m thinking of.

Maybe Clive Owen? 

His face is pretty generic.

When I’m with you, I get that moderately hungry feeling in my tummy.

Which could be because I haven’t had lunch.

When I look into your eyes, I think, “medium brown”, 

which is the most common eye color on Earth.

When we talk, it’s about stuff that doesn’t particularly interest me, 

but I’ve got an hour to kill,

so why not.

Your conversation kills time just fine.

Yes, the weather is hot enough for me, thanks.

Speaking of hot, you’re kind of lukewarm, but definitely above room temp. 

Well done

or should I say “medium done”?

I would not send you back to the kitchen.

You’re fine, I suppose.


for showing up.

I can see why other people don’t mind your presence much.

You barely ever interrupt me when I’m doing something interesting.

Even when you do, you are remarkably easy to tune out.

If I were to distill your personality into a slogan, it would be,

“Okay, but let’s see what else there is.”

You’re so bland, you probably think this ode is about you,

because you have an unusually high sense of self-awareness,

but that is your only remarkable trait.

You put the “average” in “mean”

and the bulge in the bell curve.

You’re so mediocre, you’d be a great focus group participant.

Well, someone’s got to be average

or else extraordinary people wouldn’t have anyone to stand out from.

You don’t stand out.

You stand in.

Did you say something?

I wasn’t listening.

I was miles away.

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