A bench

I see an empty bench
should I walk past ignoring
the old, familiar strange he is
or should I stay and
listen to the secrets
he hold?

day after day
his shaky skeleton
patiently waits to comfort
the kind, interested and helpless,
while he tries to hold on
to his rusty skin,
leaving behind his mischievous nights
in past, his heavy eyes
invite people to approach
and share with him
memories, warm and cold,
letting them take a dip
in their daydreams
when they seek shelter
from reality.

I used to have one such bench
at a place, I can still call home,
with whom I’d sit at night,
with people, but usually alone,
I’d take the batteries out my mysticism
and put them in my
thinking cap,
to me, my bench was hope.

but what about that
arctic girl with folded arms
occupying the bench like
a toothache,
or the sunny guy turning autumn
as he walks by,
or the sweating guy still running
giving hope to life,
what does it mean to them?

I guess
I should find out.