The Bench
by Glen Binger
I was sitting in the steady rain
On a frozen worn-out bench
Made of hollow aluminum.
The black paint chipped away as I scratched
My name between my legs
With a broken click-top pen.
Each flake of absent color
Revealed a path of silent graffiti.
And the sparkle of each silver sheet
Disappeared with every drop of salt-soaked water
That fell off the tip of my angst-ridden nose.