There's intersections I've mindlessly crossed,
and the corners of grocery store produce sections over which my eye has passed,
a root broken square in the sidewalk travelled daily on the way home from the bus stop, and
that certain shade of 3 p.m. mid-November light that
you can't exactly name, but innately know all the same.
These details are the minutiae of a life, too trivial to romanticize in any poem,
(for honestly, who'd care?)
but the fact that you're smiling right now,
quietly to yourself as you read these lines
proves, that that is not the case.