The bench is a rusted old red
that has been mushed into this
muddy green grass for roughly
twenty years. A lot can happen
in just twenty years. Terrorists
terrorize cities, wars can
bring home warriors and,
the dead. The dead die, but
never leave. How many people
have filled their cheeks
with cold tears while hanging
over the handrail on this bench?
Or what about first kisses,
girls blushing their hearts
out and young boys sweating
through the process?
How many birds have left
the remains of this morning’s
tasty worm?
Or kids with scrapes being
comforted?
What about novels? Has
anybody spent seven hundred
plus hours crouching on this
now pink bench and written a
New York Times Best Seller?
How many?
How many people,
exactly,
have seen a person,
a brown eyed blonde girl
spending an entire day
scribbling nothing on
a pad of paper that doesn’t
exist to her—or anybody else?
And how many,
how many have cared?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment