Sometimes I like to sip on tea
And stare at the blank space of the wall.
I sip, and lean back on the couch,
Counting the white painted cinder blocks.
I’ll sit comfortably, with thoughtful gaze,
Sipping what tastes like steamed black licorice;
Since I know it’s good for me.
But I’ll count the bricks and maybe pause,
Thinking, I wish I could paint something there.
But I cannot, since the wall is not my belonging.
I rent. I sip. The tea is not my favorite.
And neither is the plain white wall.
And yet, I’m grateful for both.