Park Bench

Park Bench

Cloud shadowed all consciousness.

Sun blocked, not divulging insight to the future.

Streets saw more of my shoes than the floor in my room.

Staying indoors, I felt like a tiger in a zoo.

Down a short hill, across the lawn, I saw

kneeling in prayer a humble park bench,

surrounded by three orphan oaks:

a sun with his planets, orbiting in the grassy expanse.

Pine, mowed grass, wet leaves:

a buffet for my nostrils to awake my slept-in soul.

I walked towards him and spoke as a friend.

“May I sit here?” I asked, rubbing him with my hand.

With kind consent he nodded his head.

I rested my frame, wiggling to find comfort,

his old bones were solid, but soothing on my body.

Sunday, I visited him again,

like a faithful Catholic still on his knees.

I joined him praying to our separate Gods,

two brothers searching for purpose.

In our shrift, to him, my Priest, I spilled my secrets.

I opened my eyes, a new colour on the canvas

Purple and Pink rebelled against Grey,

lifting the weight that burdened me down.

I set off on my way, glancing back with a smile.

I see him still, from time to time, practicing his old religion,

and think back to old ambition.

There is no need to sit --

I’m walking the path I have chosen.