The Bench

The Bench

Under a Maple tree near the city park entrance,
sits a nondescript, weathered, plain old bench,

Hundreds have passed by and many to rest
Like mothers with toddlers tying up a loose lace,
Kissing scraped knees or wiping a face,

That old bench is a meeting place Tuesdays
for widows Mildred and Grace,
Who chat over lunch that they take turns to make,
discussing TV shows, world events,
pains and aches,

Then there are old Army pals Walter and Ray, who meet on Thursdays,
Checkers they'll play,
while reminiscing about those former glory days

Who would know a simple bench with such a history
of events?

A place where love began or love has ended,
Then again sometimes where hearts are mended,

But to most it will only be
An old bench near the city park entrance

Nancy Ellen Crossland