A Bench

He sits on the bench waiting for contact, any sign of life that is willing to make a gesture

in his direction that will prove that he is not forgotten, that he is still alive.

The sky is grey and the streets are cold and empty. As he stares at the steel buildings

a bitter wind grazes his face. He winces, feeling the tears slowly forming

in his eyes as his body contracts to protect itself from the unrelenting cold.

Though he cannot see it he knows the skin on his face has turned white from the cold.

His thin and patchy beard offers little protection, and the holes in his clothing

remind him that no matter how hard he tries, no matter whose help he seeks,

no matter how much time he sacrifices to find any hint of comfort that

the cold will always disregard his well being as it satisfies its own selfish desire

to remind him that he is only so strong.

As the city comes to life they pass him by. At first they come slowly, barely a crowd ever

forming in front of him as they wait for the bus

as they read the newspaper

as they buy a cup of coffee

as they walk sleepily, yawning and covering their mouths

as they wait for the traffic signal to turn

as they hail a cab

as they check their watches and curse the sky

He sees them all as they come together in front of the bench. He has awaited their company

for so long, and now he is surrounded. He waits in anticipation, giddy for the first one

to reach out and make contact, to smile or nod, to say "good morning, sir."

Every set of eyes sees through him. He runs his thumb between the wooden slats that make up

the seat of the bench. He feels the pits between the varnish that have crept up from years

of curious fingers and unforgiving bodies which have tormented throughout their existence.

His eyes wander skyward to see a face in front of his. Its hazel eyes are set inside of a deep brow

which has furrowed as it has set its gaze. The coarse black hair that sits above the brow has been meticulously set to the left, showing few signs of age. The skin surrounding the mouth and cheeks is freshly shaven with no pockmarks. As the mouth begins to move his anticipation heightens.

"Alright, Frank. It's time to go. Yo know I hate to do this, but I've told you a dozen times this week. You can't take up the space in front of the bus stop if you don't use the bus." A silver flash reflected off of his blue shirt as he outstretched an arm and pointed away from the bench. "Please move."

He stood up, staring at the man with the hazel eyes and furrowed brow and coarse hair and freshly shaven un-pockmarked face with the blue shirt that flashed silver on one side. He looked down to his right and walked toward a stone wall and sat in front of it. The cold wind had conspired with the stone to create a domain in which there was no escape from the cold. He brought his knees to his chest, and as he exhaled a violent wind swept over every inch of his body, permeating every opening in his clothing.

He looked to his left, back to the bench. He saw it as a pedestal that offered refuge from

the bitterness of the cold, unforgiving stone. He looked to see a well-dressed man in a grey suit

with a briefcase approach the bench. The man in the grey suit looked at the man with the hazel eyes and furrowed brow and coarse hair and freshly shaven un-pockmarked face with the blue shirt

that flashed silver on one side and smiled. "Thank you, officer" he boomed. The man in the grey suit 

looked down to his right and shook his head.

"Fucking bums."

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