Tea and the Wall

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.