Storied Bench
Who’s rested on your slats?
Whose heart broke from the news?
Whose wounds grew?
Whose spirit held hope for easier days?
Whose fingertips traced chips and gripped the black arm?
Whose weary body, worn from worry and wear, rested?
Whose bleary eyes, full of fury and tears, closed?
Whose gaze held the knowing that all of humanity, the stars, moon, earth and life were wrapped into one,
tiny,
sun-drenched drop
of salted spray and that everything
would,
eventually,
yes, eventually,
be okay?
Tell me, oh solemn bench,
your stories.
Are you sworn to secrecy?
Have the rained rinsed them away
or do remnants remain
in your wood grain and peeled paint?
Was there a homeless woman
afraid for her life
while once a wife
and mother?
Was there a handsome man
full of pride
tethered to his skin
emotions checked within?
Was there a child
squirming to play
told to sit
and smile at the *click*?
Today it was me.
Bathed in sentiments of home:
Alpena to St. Pete
Thunder Bay to Tampa Bay
Unsalted Huron to salted Gulf
Sailboats, seagulls, and breakwalls
Family ties
Binding yesterday’s home to today’s home
Watching the bay water hit
and spit
salty spray
from rocky wall
as the sun rested
on tips of waves
like trillions of stars
on their backs
upside down
in the light of day
I hugged in my legs
drew in a breath
and added a layer of story
to the weathered bench.
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