Mark is an everyday man.

Nondescript, soft-spoken, shy guy

who mumbles most responses when questioned

rather than speaking outright.

He prefers not to talk a lot.

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Typically, wears a closely cropped crewcut,

Levi jeans, varying shades of blue Polo shirts

with always a slight trace of grease under his fingernails

remnants from working as a grease monkey

at Mel’s Automotive Garage.

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Thirty years old, he still resides

in the basement at his mom Beulah’s house.

She longs for him to marry a nice church gal.

Muttering he says, “I don’t want anyone.”

He figures a steady gal will be more trouble than fun.

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Takes care of his manly urges discreetly once a month

at the Motel 6 with a Lady of the Night.

Treats himself to what he considers a luxury meal

of Salisbury Steak, mashed potatoes, gravy and green beans

at Dino’s Diner most Saturday evenings.

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Watching his big screen TV fills his pastime.

Never outgrew watching cartoons

and Slime Time kiddy shows that remind him

of his childhood before his world became complicated

by adult responsibilities and expectations.

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The other mechanics at Mel’s Garage

tease him about his odd, reclusive ways.

Quietly, he accepts the ribbing.

When he’s had enough, he blurts his standing zinger.

“At least I don’t believe that Bigfoot lives as you do.”

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Then they laugh together with this everyday man

who doesn’t feel the need to be anything else.