Walking walking Walking walking
They all pass by as I’m sat upon my bench
The scent of warm fresh rain on asphalt fills my lungs
Cars honk, engines hum, people talk, shoes scrape the pavement-
Sirens wail, the breeze chimes, doors open and close.
It brings comfort and safety to know that I’m surrounded by everything chaotic-
It eases the mind as tea makes you sleepy.
Busy streets express the voices that yell you’re doing it all wrong
The noise presents an opportunity to fight becoming their victim
I sit on my bench and sort my thoughts whilst the road is still humming
Warm moist air allows my mind to race wildly
The bench Is comfortable, a sort of metal coated by thick rubbery black paint
They all pass by
Very few sit, for I have few words
I see why they walk
I have nothing more than a seat on my bench
Or so the liar tells me
The longer they sit the longer my paragraphs become
The longer they sit the further my strings tangle
Those who are puzzled help me sort them
They wish to put themselves in my shoes--
I’m not sure why they want my shoes or to tie the laces properly
They’re just shoes.
As I sit on my bench I go on a journey, admiring mountains and valleys
I reach far into the liars memory and attempt to fold laundry wrinkled years back
I did not choose to toss the laundry into the bin
Far too many tasks at hand to pick up a book and learn the art of folding laundry
Perhaps I was promised a helper that never arrived.
So it was thrown in for her to sort on this warm city street.
Favorite visitors come often
They arrive each day like clockwork
Some come and never do once more.
I’m sat upon my bench
The streets taste of a warm mocha topped with whipped cream
It suddenly brings internal warmth and energy without ever asking.
I consider for a moment that each and every walker has a story
I wish to hear them all for I’m only held back by running myself dry
A sponge can only squeeze so much water
So I rest here remaining a distance
& await the next lost soul to get lost with