a rottingwood bench faces the dirty river
I pass twice daily to and from work.
not once have I seen anyone sitting on it
taking in the green, or sketching the silent pathetic
wonder of the broken down bridge
in its’ panoramic view.
and I, old enough a soul
to enjoy the view
but too young a body
to take the time...
typically only stop for a second to say
hello:goodbye.
but someday wrinkles will possess my skin,
and my body will grow too frail, too thin.
(I wait in anticipation)
for I picture myself sitting quite peacefully
when I’m older,
sure, I’ll do other things
but I’ll always be sitting.
sitting-at a typewriter punching insanity
taking drags down my lungs
sitting-at that bench
by an ancient river.
sitting-on my front porch
throwing rocks at all the white trash kids.
at the kitchen table alone looking down my glass of scotch.
with the old guys at our pub discussing football.
at the diner every Sunday morning
where I flirt with the waitress
because it makes me feel young
and reminds her she’s still pretty
(since her husband never does)
sitting-alone
at a gravestone I bought
for the many lovers purposefullylost.
sitting…with a deviled ham sandwich
(for I believe this to be what old men eat)
on a rottingwood bench I passed too many times as a boy.
my bones now mirroring Her wood,
tired spectacles facing that dirty river
I will sit, notice something missing, and listen
to Her story of the winding times,
how the men came and tore Her bridge down.
and how once upon a time
She wasn’t always lonely.
