A world without time, 

a feeble decrepit man with no

place to call home, in his prime.

 

A world without ground,

a white ice-cream sky bleeding

the crimson light illuminating, dying,

crying, frying the coolly child

with her mile wide smile.

 

You, the wooden green bench,

with gray voracious grass as legs

and silver sagacious nails as eyes;

are the space between two

worlds.

 

A cosmic key made of bark

carries the weight of both

their cheerful sorrow.

something neither can ask

the other “ May I borrow? ”

 

The child has no ground

to be buried in.

Nor does the man dying in the

arms of his own grief.

You will forever carry these worlds,

limiting the smile child

with a surface, and

letting your insipid

life consume the

man, as if you adore his life of

eternal brevity,

 

But you do not.

 

For how can a

bench love a man

and his child?

 

Who wait in autumn’s

voluminous rain for a bus that will

never come.

 

A bus; to replace the

the wooden bench,

the space of nothingness

that keeps the worlds

at bay.

 

Only the child finds ground on the bus.

And man lets his grief finally

grab him by the throat on a bench made of bark.