Alone on the park bench
he hummed monotone
a song of the faces
he saw march along
parading as memories
he hoped wouldn't fade
like down-falling leaves that
are wrinkled and brown.

The lining of silver
that clouded in sign
of years full of hard work
and heartbreak and tears
was swept on his brow like
storm clouds yet unwept
and swayed in the autumnish

The time flew unnoticed
as well as the chime
inviting the final
bus riders that night
to clamber aboard and
"Here, have a seat, ma'am!"
Escorting the passengers
to their resorts

away from the park bench's
dismal display:
a monochromatic
of days long past gone.
He sat on the parkbench
a hand on his hat.
It's numb and frost-bitten
and soon will succumb

to death on the parkbench.
He's gasping for breath.
It puffs from his nostrils
and forms vapor fluffs
but soon they're not seen by
the light of the moon.
He sits still and cold and
no one can admit:
He died on the parkbench
alone and outside.