The Bench

 Sometimes on my way to work

There at the bus stop on my corner

There will be the old man, 

Grizzled grey in overalls

A cane at his side

Waiting as if for the bus

A kind and patient look on his face

I passed the corner five days a week

And it took a month to notice him

Every day in the morning at the bus stop 

On the bench with his cane.

I used to say I didn’t like people

But its not true

I’ve always liked people.

But there were times I didn’t like myself so 

You know how that goes.

Or do you?

I hope not.

I hope so.

Sometimes they ask you with

Whom would you like to sit

On a bench for an hour and talk

Well, there is Ghandi and Lincoln

And James Stewart always seemed nice

My dad, or my great-grandfather 

Who they say was run over one night

When he was down on his luck.

Or my first love.

Would she remember me?

Would she remember me 

The way I remember her?

Her nose, cold in the December night

Her cheeks blushed, lips soft

Her hands warm in my pockets

And mine in hers.

This I would like to know.

It took a month to notice him

There on the bench in the morning

It took another week to notice something else.

In the afternoon, returning home from work

He was still there with his beard and his cane.

Still that kind and patient expression.

Had he been there all day?

Yes he had, and here in the afternoon

 There are a group of people gathered around him 

And children

And they all seem to be listening to him.

I think he must like people. 

I think he and his cane 

Make the journey everyday

And he holds court there.

He does not ride the bus, ever.

Maybe one day I’ll go sit with him.

Just me and him and Abe Lincoln.

srenfro 11/2020