Sunday, November 10, 2019

A Park Bench Ghost

By T.L. Coston

There is a neighborhood park a couple of blocks away
Where denizens stroll and children play
As squirrels scamper, stamp and chatter
Protesting that this is their domain

‘Tis a bowl of pleasure and sometimes pain
Where laughter wafts a quarter mile away
Punctuated by a high pitched cry of a siren whine
To stutter and stop from a mother’s touch

Down the steps and to the right
There is a park bench situated under a light
And when the weather permits
You’ll see an old man sitting there until sunset

No one sees this gentleman
They pass him by without a care
They’ll sit next to him without a glance
To say hello or inquire is too much to ask

He is a ghost to the denizens of the park
A wayward spirit whose time is sparse
He is just a shadow on a bench
A being whose sunset has come to an end

No comments: