I am a bench
I am a weathered, gray bench, alone by the beach.
I’ve sat quietly in the rain and the snow,
holding up sighing bodies,
watching waves crash and turn shattered
glass into tiny treasures.
I don’t move, merely watch, meek:
a stepping-stone for other stories.
I hold up crying bodies, shaking bodies,
bodies that embrace and smile and kiss;
quiet bodies watching the sun roll up its rays
I am the silent witness to lives coming and gone
—the setting for your scene—
I do not rue, I do not howl when the empty night
swallows me and my splintering boards.
I am the silent witness.
When the sun rises on my cracked planks
the storytellers will know I have heard them.
Now they will hear me.
“So,” says the simple platform of wood and nails,
“my only wish is that your tales
end better than mine, and that the lengths you go
result in more than just a gray bench by the sea to show.”