Bench Tending
by Odin Roark

The people’s park.
My bench.

The people’s lake.
My view.

I tend bench.
A bench tender, they call me.
I keep the “crazies” movin’ on.

Uniformed Nannies with their charge of sleepers in carriages
sit and order up the usual. I pour out
some past observations of the many Richy-Rich
types remote controlling their sail boats, or
the poor threadbare kids wistfully watching.

Retired money loves this bench.
They like their stories vintage,
the more dust needing to be wiped off,
the better. And, with all the other aged
frequenting my bench, there’s always one experience
better than the last. The fine bouquet of old country
can last a whole afternoon sometimes.

And then there’s Captain.
My old Nam vet friend comes by
about closing time,
knows my shift ends when
the sun goes down.
I don’t like the park at night.
Crazies come down from the trees, ya know.
Anyway, Captain sits, orders up one of my favorite
cool refreshments: Usually a Pretty Lady Strut story,
or a Roller Blade Dash, or sometimes
Make-Believe-Happy. That’s his favorite.

He keeps me pouring my heart out,
which is what all good bench tenders do,
and orders another, and another. We both
know the drill. He stays sober giving me
advise, and I keep him loose with more
of what I know how to do.
He keeps telling me it’s all an illusion.
“The whole lot of it. It’s all crazy.”

Once he stands up (he’s always got another deal to close)
and pushes his overburdened grocery cart down the walk,
I pack up my belongings, meager as they are, and call
it a day. Tips are good lately. Can’t complain.
I open up what’s left of my brown bag of bread crumbs,
and just like that crazier than crazy Pied Piper,
I sprinkle some palpable insanity behind me
and the pigeons follow me home.

I look over my shoulder,
“Home, you ask?”

“Anywhere warm. Still kinda in between my ship
that didn’t come in, and the one
that’s sure to arrive soon, you know?”
I exchange a wink with my Mr. Whoever
as the pigeons waddle right through him,
heads bobbing and pecking away, not missing a morsel.

Funny…

Strangers lonelier than me follow me home,
and we share a night here, a night there,
curled up side by side over a subway
grating, the steam giving all the solace
we need. And, hey, they can say
all the want about the rich,
but lower 5th Avenue’s sidewalks
have been very charitable this fall.

I look up through the high-rises surrounding me,
watch the moon crest and pull up what’s left
of my collar.

Gettin’ nippy.

Early winter comin’, I bet.