I am

poem for buddy sloan.

it seems that every other day,
i find myself
walking to the far corner of the school, sit on my bench-
closing my eyes -
hear the pit-pat-pit-pat feet of individuals, sometimes couples,
who i know pass glances over to me.

too tired to open my backpack and open the pages,
i turn over the flaps within me -
my feet shake, my hands tap the bench.

this place is old, and i love this bench.
on the front, it is gray, weathered-down, beaten,
like the comforts of a home one belongs to,
especially once the glamor has faded.
there is history to this bench, i know -
i look around - 1925 -
that was before i was born, and yet
here i am.
i wasn't there for its birth, for its adolescence and youth,
but here, at its twilight,
so i grip the handle, stand up, walk around the bench,
to see it fully as it is now.

i never would've guessed from this old, beaten bench,
that the back would be full of vigor,
that full color of old,
painted, polished, finished from which age
could not be determined.

it must have been the wind that ate away at the front,
but i think - and of course i would like to know -
it was the decades of fellows who like me
found rest in its comforting, slightly bent seat,

who like me, found
rest
leaning against the armrests.

to too many like me,
who could not take in its beauty entirely,
who could not see,
it offered without remorse.

i found myself
relaxing my fingers, straightening and releasing my legs
looking out -
wondering where i would sit next.