The Bench

The couple sat athwart on the bench,

each looking in a different direction,

as if anticipating or holding back

the sudden rush of a departing train.

The woman's eyes followed a pigeon

skittering along cracked pavement, dusty

wings whirling up small eddies

of forgotten ticket stubs and crumbs.

The man stared into a cluttered horizon

painted with telephone wires

and a forgotten church spire, half-lost

amid the climbing concrete of what’s next.

Their hands lay close, almost touching,

yet anchored by the unseen burden

of unexplored grievances or unvoiced,

perhaps dusty concessions to time’s passing.

A child with a candy-striped balloon

passed between them, a transient thread,

joining and then unjoining the lives

briefly stitched in red and white silk.

If I could stand behind their still figures,

I might see the past and future folded

gently, like a neglected map spread

neatly on the seat between them.