A Little Park Bench in a Small Spanish Town

Nowhere to go, but somewhere to sit. I see a little park bench, in a small Spanish town.

My minding aching, my heart heavy. I sit on the little park bench, in a small Spanish town.

My arms spreading, cotton stretching, the sun disappearing behind collonades of forest in the surrounding hills. I look to the sky on the park bench, in a small Spanish town.

The people are talking, passing, and laughing. Each and every one with terrazas to go to and people to be. But here I remain, avoiding their gaze. On a little park bench, in a small Spanish town.

Leaves caught together, dance above me. The wind bristles and rustles and rushes. Wind and leaf swirl together, caught by each other. It’s a dance just between them, with me the sole spectator. On a little park bench, in a small Spanish town.

Crossing the whispy breeze, birds flit like arrows between trees. Alarmed and excited, their tweets and chirps ring. I see them all flock together and fly as they please. But I’m down here below, seated as they soar. On a little park bench, in a small Spanish town.

I’ve never sat on this park bench, but I’ve been here before. The same leaves have whisped by, the same birds in the trees. The same people, all strangers, have all passed a past me. Moments between moments, of not wanting to be. I won’t always be here but here I’ll always be. To the little park bench I return, in a small Spanish town.