Ode to the Park Bench


Rob was here.
G + S = 4eva.
Call 684-6277 for a good time.
All etched out of the green paint. Each writer remembered not only by their mark, but by their resting weight and resonating body heat. How many tired sets of legs were given comfort by this park bench? How many ornery teenagers out way past their curfew were caught etching out more meaningless marks of the already chipping paint? How many sobbing toddlers comforted by their loving mothers had this bench seen?

It’s truly a thankless job: giving rest to the wicked, a bed to the homeless, a canvas to those with a sharp knife and the misgiving that they had something to say. Used and abused by so many, this bench would never be invited over for Thanksgiving, never be encouraged to relax, never be patted on its back for doing a fine job. It would stand, forever, waiting to be used, reused, and then used again. Over and over, day after day. It would endure the rain, undergo the snow, withstand the sun. Just to see you. Or you. Or you over there. Just to be there whenever you need a rest. It will be there. Waiting for you. Smiling at you. Welcoming you.


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