The Bench

Photograph by J. Trent

















The Bench
by John Trent

Awaking, slowly, on a wooden bench
Pitted and dark, his concave cheeks
Crusted and grey, stubble unkempt
Shivering slightly in a torn, soiled coat
Yet, he sits and he stares
Searching leathered fingers
Clutch a wrinkled brown bag
As the smell of bourbon drifts o’er the walk

The sun rises brightly
But his day seems grey
Slow; yet, appreciative
He relights a found butt
Drawing, deep, a comforting drag
Exhaling, slowly, a lone ribbon of smoke
Exaggerated moves, he wipes his eyes
Blinking, removing, last night’s sleep

In a nest above a lone cardinal sings
Her mate stands proud in a nearby oak
Oleander’s perfume wafts through my mind
With sounds of the enchanted
From the playground nearby
Yet, my thoughts remind
As I sit and watch
A lonely man on a wooden bench