I’m a seventy year old man,
With a sagging face that’s bearded white.
Every time I close my eyes…
I relive the horrible fight.

My hands are feeble,
My body’s failing,
My mind is lacking,
Yet my thoughts still prevailing.

My family’s long since left me,
With tears and a mangled heart,
I retreated to a bench…
It sits solidly in the park.

I have found it to be more stable…
Than the world that’s left me behind.
It is surely more compassionate…
Than any man that I could find.

It listens to my stories,
It waits for me at night,
And in the cold embraces me…
As I dream about the fight.

It understands my pain,
The pain it too has known…
We were not always friends…
It was once left all alone.

It knows the cold of the night,
And it knows the cruelty of mankind.
It’s aware of how they’ll use you,
And how they’ll disregard your mind.

The park bench cares, or so I think,
It tries to ease my pain,
And though it is not living,
I love it just the same.

Some people say park benches…
Do not have souls – not me.
I have found more love in my park bench,
Then I’ve ever known in humanity.