The Bench In Boston Public Garden

There's a worn wooden bench,
where a bearded man once sat,
with sorrow in his eyes and warmth in his voice,
and told a broken kid from Southie
about love, loss, and Shakespeare,
and how none of that
could be learned from a book.

Softened by time,
and carved with the weight
of a thousand passing thoughts,
it sits beneath an old oak tree,
watching the water move with the wind.

I sit there sometimes,
in the cool of early spring,
and talk to God.
Or myself.
Or maybe Robin Williams.
Nothing to prove,
nothing to defend,
just to listen
for any answers that might come.

The bench still carries their voices,
a lesson drifting out from the wood,
waiting for another restless mind
to sit down and listen to the wind.

Your move, chief.