Unusually Insignificant
By John Herlihy

I can safely say there is nothing unusual about me,
Something that might usually be considered significant.
However, there is something very unusual about me,
The fact that I am considered unusually insignificant.

Butterflies are preserved for posterity in glass cases,
Pinned to parchment with little care to their faces.
Only God could have hand-painted their delicate wings,
Giving them the right of significance such artistry brings.

Praying mantises startle us when we come upon them in situ,
Known for their dexterity, assuming attitudes they stick to.
Their quirky posture inspires images of the insect in prayer,
Raising its head towards Heaven with the fervor of a seer.

And let us not forget the nocturnal escapades of the firefly,
Innocent enough as an insect not worthy the attention of a spy.
The winged beetles would not normally pass a significance test,
But for the enchantment of their lightning surpassing all the rest.

To prove my point, I lay my case to rest with the lady bug,
So delicate and exquisite, you simply want to lift it up and hug.
Painted with black dots on an orange dome as if by a child’s hand,
So significant we blow her homeward, her children to reprimand.

My blandly wooden face doesn’t freely give many secrets away,
Perhaps because my unassuming mug never has much to say.
My shirts and woolen slacks represent quite an ordinary attire;
I am no dandy resorting to a wooden leg other people to inspire.

My eyes never age; their youthful gaze is direct, clear and blue.
You have seen many people like me just standing idly in a queue.
Some significance might be drawn hither as a way to be misled;
If I had the eyes of a sea monster, gaping out of my head instead.

Oh, to be significant like the legendary Robin Hood,
Who stole from the rich, a risk he clearly understood.
Oh, to be meaningful in the likes of Jack the Ripper,
Even if his reputation guarantees notoriety to ensure.

Oh, to tell tall tales in the person of Charles Dickens,
Who killed off little Dorrit with the stroke of his pens.
Oh, to be the poet and essayist Henry David Thoreau,
Who nurtured his garden in the woods along the fens.

Oh, to be the swashbuckler adventurer Captain Hook,
Who plied his ship recklessly across notoriously high seas.
Oh, to be as lithe and free as the beloved Tinkerbell,
Who flew imperiously with sparkle amid the birds and bees.

As I say, I am a quiet-looking man walking down the street,
Just taking in the sights and sounds like a cop on his beat.
My story now ends as I melt unobtrusively in the multitude;
My ambitions gave up long ago with their pretentious attitude.

I am the secret criminal who never even committed a crime;
I am the sometime liar who never lied, not even for a dime.
I am just an ordinary man, an unusually insignificant individual;
I simply go my own way, incapable of performing any miracle.