MAN ON A BENCH
Spring, warm nights,
moths under street lights.
His sleeping bag a mattress,
he stretched out like a praying mantis:
arms bent, face in a frozen grimace.
He sleeps while the early morning
traffic passes, his gray hair
peeks over the bench arm.
In the afternoon, he crosses the street,
clasping his belongings.
Where does he go
when summer’s thunder
and lightening own the sky?
Autumn, leaves of the Bradford pear
brown and settle onto the bench.
He spends nights in his sleeping bag.
He coughs, his breath
drifts in the morning sun.
Did he sleep in cardboard
under iced-covered pine trees
in the highway’s median
or crouches over a steam vent,
his tent capturing the heat.
Maple trees bud,
the volunteers plant
early pansies. Today, the man
reclaims his bench.
The Hudson View
