homely

Homely

(A response to the question, “Who helps old ladies cross the street anyway?”)

The park bench is empty now

Yet somehow

It seems,

Through its own lifeless means

To yearn for the bus

For the people, for the us

To show no restraint

As they wallow in wet paint

I helped an old woman, no particular motives in mind, with her luggage then graciously opening the door for her bid farewell. As I saw her waving driving away I remembered childhood visions of a mother who pressured by the necessity of money robed to make me happy. A tear slowly meandered down the contours of my cheek. I wondered if she had children and if she did if they on snowy days found their thoughts, brought on by nonchalant microseconds in the life of an astounding planet, spurred by little old ladies, returned to a warmer time in the womb when speculations went unquestioned by loving parents whose dreams were not to crush a child’s intuition, though not implying right or wrong with that subtle “Hugh” were always there to listen. And I found myself crying outright hoping this action would, in some minute way, help her find the way back to an innocence of old age and silence.

I sit now on the bench, a lonely poet with a dream, it’s brilliant color scheme, green with varied signs and numbers cluttered by all the colors of the sun. As I slowly reach to light a cigarette, the occupation carried not always conscious of for three years now, I wonder whether the artist’s notion was to include the figures into his masterpiece. I became quite furious exhaling with an emphasized air of remorse.

“Who are they that strive to ruin this creation?” I shouted as a passersby stared. I admit I am a homely man with none to warm my heart. I nearly cried thinking of the bench. I do love it, though an inanimate object it may be, for it loved me first. And my cigarette was done so I properly disposed of it with a stomp of foot. Then I set to carving a broken heart on the bench. Benchs can’t feel pain, and most certainly not mine. Slowly my mind eloped into a lazy mode of philosophizing in which conscious perception slowly faded until thoughts squeeze themselves, through a small hole in the back of my head, entering the forever relentless realm of reality.

Walking away I know I saw a tear protruding from its silvery eye. I had to look back, the pain being too great. I thought this would reincarnate a piece of my pride allowing me to continue my nonexistent journey that I could not deny the importance of.

My brain began to quarrel with myself thinking of all that was scattered behind by a slow burning, rather yearning to experience and as I walked away I lost myself in the sewer fog and neon lights.

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