Bench Buddies

Disruptive thoughts

of life

intruded upon the peaceful

scenery of the Sunday park.

As a slow-moving

sad-faced old gentlemen

frozen by the years

of solitude

made small talk

with the chattering

afternoon bird crowd.

Reclining in a death pose

upon the bench

he frowned at the sky

as the Sun forced him

out of his pretended

grave shell

and the wandering wind

gently prodded him

with thoughts of decay.

"I was free once,” the wind whispered,

“before the soft feather down of clouds

framed my presence with sea swirls

and land rot.

Now I am told where to blow.

Gone are the days

when I skimmed over the ocean

in limitless contemplation of all life.

The East?

The East always demanded more of me than I was willing to give.

The West?

The West loved me for the legends I blew through their land.

The North?

Yes, The North owns my heart, and always will.

The South?

The South never wanted me, though they were always glad whenever I showed up.

That is my tale.

So move over my old friend.

Let me rest my weary bones beside you.

Share in your pain.

Until the dark mistress arrives

To cover our presence

With the black light

Of obscurity."