Sit

wooden, cracked,

wrapped, and bent,

aged by dirt and grime,

she screams at the morning sun,

consoles the bitter cold,

and whispers at the warm breeze.

as the people blur by,

fixated on their days plans,

they pay no attention

to her chipping wood

or dented arm rests,

or the initials

dug into her grain.

good morning—

she says,

but only the crows squawk.

her words

have never reached further

than the withered grass

beneath her feet,

rampant with bottle caps

and gum wrappers.

good night—

she says,

but only the wind

howls back.

alone she waits,

in solitude she confides,

she is used, cried on, slept

and loved on.

when the wood finally snaps,

will she be replaced?

or will she be sanded

and stained new?

she does not know,

because wood always

breaks.