There’s just something about wooden benches

How grouped they can be, such consolidation

They don’t know each other, but what’s the cessation?
I take a familiar walk on some park, among a sportive path
From the rise of light, to the centered rays brushing through walls of lath
My eyes begin to fix on the differing bodies that trespass
Always another contemporary piece to the canvas above grass
The expression of age, style, hopes, and experiences
All scattered and exposed on pews along with bacteria
Moods tend to be expendable, as new people seem to approach
Each social uniqueness untampered but open to reproach
The sophistication of one with a book as some resistance
While the irritation of a mothering soul is closely coexistent
Both hold on to the chipped rails of the wilting vessel
Easing their neighboring tensions by the level
The book-lover, bag in one hand, departs avoiding speech
And the persistent mother’s opposing path to the sea
The seconds feel forever in a tunnel vision
Within the wait for new sitting pigeons
Only one this moment, in a form of desperation
Sit with this mood, or hide behind its formation
A younger one, no sanctuary on the chart of locations
Chooses but a bench, so exposed to reside in an adaptation
It won’t stay rooted to the ground for the life beyond
But it will wither with hopelessness in its bond
Its outside existence grows some social imbalance
But balance coincides from its feet, as knowledge counterbalances
Let this bench be what understands you and accepts
And at the same time please the hearts you deflect
It stands for the comfort to everyone
Even if the wood splinters and becomes undone