Benches
Every bench around the pond is dedicated
with a plaque screwed to the green wood,
each one devoted to the folks who donated them.
I can’t sit on them, rest my bones there.
The winter water is pewter, the sky is goose grey,
the benches the only green;
they stand out in the monochrome light,
resembling flags
of an ongoing bereavement.
After a short walk I go back to the car,
start the engine, back out
into a world where lives
are hammered but briefly
into passing clouds.
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