The Bench - 1
This is where the
ghosts sit,
After their bodies
were driven out of town,
To fall, one by one,
On the twenty-first-
century trail of tears
That led them away
from this tidy park,
With its geraniums
and lampposts and picnic tables,
Into the darkness of
North America,
Where nobody cared if
they crumbled by the roadside,
Their unclaimed
remains shoveled into pauper’s graves.
Here, on this bench,
With its curved iron
slats and armrests,
Looking out over the
lake,
Where heaven slips
down
Into Earth’s embrace,
They watch the stars
come out,
And whisper of
forgiveness.
The Bench – 2
My bench is gone.
Oh, woe is me.
There’s nothing where
It used to be.
Its iron slats
Were curved just
right,
So I could lie down
In the night.
It held me
In its firm embrace,
Until the sunrise
Warmed my face.
Where e’er I wandered,
Through the day,
I knew it would not
Go away.
But I was wrong.
Jo Swanson 8-6-26
