the green paint-chipped benches
slouch on the wilting concrete sidewalk,
leaning cautiously on those abused red stones,
and he
lays on that bench
in that cold
clutching his coat—
his thick woolen skin—
against that cold.
Silenced, angry tears swell
down the puffed redness of his face.
The day has been too long,
the night too rough
with his fractured mind
and as I gaze in his sullen eyes
I understand what I am seeing:
the world.
This beaten boy is us-
the human race-
as we put all our weight
on the leaning, cracking, breaking world,
as the world itself slumps and folds under our weight, and
we simply lay upon it and cry-
lament the changes
the disasters we have caused…
Our eyes connect
and something molded from hope
lights the grainy blues on his face;
I smile
because that is all I can do for a dying breed.
I smile and shrug,
and his blues shine,
and we know:
I smiled
because we need false optimism
because no one knows when the green paint will be all gone
because the bench could give way any second
I smiled at melancholy optimized
because we lay on a slouching bench
and that is more than anyone can do for us