Park Bench Hotel
by Odin Roark

Staring up from my park bench,
Spartan threadbare blanket adequate,
you swirl about fading light’s warmth
and I envy,
oh, how I envy.

At midnight,
like other nights,
lamp power shuts off,
you flutter to my chest.

My eyes follow as you adjust
our night-moth visitation,
if only to shiver
beneath my cupped hand.

Our hearts pulsate together,
our insignificance
still a sign of greatness,
our lives triumphant
against a world’s cruelty.

No blind chance this,
me of tears
like Pagliacci.
You of powdered face
like a street mime.

Sleeping clowns we,
welcoming another night’s
circus of dreams.