The splinters beneath me on the wooden bench.
Why don’t they ever replace it?
Gasoline fumes.
The smell of the dead future?
The cool of the trees’ shade,
The hot sun beating down in the nearby playground.
Why do the insects crawl on my book?
Long strands of hair glinting on my black pants.
Why are they russet in the sunlight?
I pretend I have no needs.
I don’t have to eat or drink or get tired.
But I still experience pain:
The ache in my shoulders because of sitting
In the shade
Of the tree
On the old wooden bench
For hours.
And I’ve already finished my poetry book
But I feel hungry and can’t resist.
I eat one small granola bar.
Do the flies smell the sugar on my breath?
Maybe if I convince myself I don’t have a desire to eat or drink
That means I’m not human.
Not being human means being perfect.
Why is it impossible to be perfect?
The old men sitting next to me on the old wooden bench
Have loud, harsh voices and talk about
Thinks that don’t matter, conversations that have no interest.
Why are their lives so boring?
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