The Bench
// Poetry //

August, 2019

I usually take the subway to my bench.
Not that it's actually my bench.
I just like to call it that.
Then I go the rest of the way.
Up the rain-cured subway stairs
Through the traffic and across the streets,
until I reach the park
and my bench.
Then I sit down and wait.
Alongside the other alcoholics.
Not that I'm an alcoholic,
but I like to see my practice as an addiction.
Like something I can't help doing.
A compulsion.
And then I wait.
Not on anyone particular.
Even though everyone, when you get to know them, is particular indeed.
But I’m not waiting on anyone specific.
Just on people passing by.
And then I write.
About them.
Borrowing a little.
Here and there.
An expression.
A look.
A garment.
a way to walk -
or ride a bike.
And then I try to attach great importance to small intricacies.
And from the smallest detail
a character arises, sometimes an entire universe.
I have a keen sense of the darker sides of human nature.
At least I think so.
After all, it is the most enthralling
The dark side.
The unpolished.
The grime and dirt.
The hidden and unspoken.
That’s what I’m after
Those are the stories I want to tell.
And sometimes I wonder
what the passersby would think, if they knew,
that I was sitting here, busy stealing their imaginary lives.
Maybe someday you will pass by
my bench.
And become a character
in me
and in my scribbles
Would you like that?
And what do you think I would notice?
Take an interest in?
And would you be able to recognize yourself?
Or would you think that my focus is wrong?
What is your darker nature?
And what would it become,
if I attached great importance to it?
And nurtured it.
Or does it already dominate your life?
And are you able to scale it down?
And rewrite your life.
As I.