Simplicity

But there was nothing to write about
Except life and death
--Billy Collins

I, too, grow tired of these
grand, poetic concepts—
death, life, the common
strands of human nature—
and wish to simplify
my thoughts. Should I be
ashamed to confess
that now, I desire
only to describe
the room I sit in?
(Blank beige walls, oak
veneer tables, bare
vending machines, with
only the hushed drone
of an air conditioner
running somewhere off
to my left creating what
some might call atmosphere.)
Does this space not
have its own grandness?
Are the paradoxes of
reality not clear and
unanswerable here, too?