Park Bench Reality

Come spring,
he wasn’t fond of birds singing,
or trees turning green,
little flowers sprouting here and there,
for he desired bleak skies with their short days
and long nights.

He preferred cloistering himself on his bench,
watching his thoughts roam,
imagining himself an entire
homeless family with few possessions,
grateful with comfort and shelter for the night,
the time when stars could talk to him.

Most of all,
he liked to smile,
knowing he was here today,
maybe gone tomorrow,
the forever hide-and-seek dark swirl sneaking up on him at night
trying to blow out the lit match in his head.

“But not tonight, poet,” he used to tell me,
his determined smile always there.

“Not tonight.”

“Catch you later?” I’d whisper as I left
with my note pad and pencil,
grateful for another few minutes
taking in his special brand of reality.

“No worry. My flame’s still holdin’ on.”