FRIDAY’S BENCH

The old man rests on the bench
he does not fill it.
There is room for others to join him.
No one does.
He sits alone
barely occupying his space
a ghost in the pale afternoon.

He may be looking for something,
squinting past the sunlight.
No one pays attention
but he is;
there is something out there
that he hopes to see
and it evades him.

His quarry has escaped the old man.
The day has flown by
and, while the children shuttle home for dinner
and the joggers take their afternoon sweat
and life continues,
the old man struggles home alone.