Park Bench

It isn’t easy to be stationary, and mute, even though
my corner of the park is comfortable—a corner splotched
with the moving shadows of the years. And then there is
the laburnum, ecstatic bloomer, resident pelter of tiny suns
of which I am rather fond. I should be content with the
picturesqueness of my situation: the foliage, the whispery
quietude of this spot, the population of arthropods
crawling up my cast-iron legs or building silken cities
for the mythologies of exoskeletons. I should be thrilled
that I am privy to conversations and gestures
and clandestine kisses and the syntax of birdsong
and the budding corpuscles of wordless longings.
Penelope waited here, her knitting needles clicking
with unrequited heat, making the clouds gather
and the air clammy with gods unsung and frisky.
Telemachus played a rowdy game of cricket here
in this park, where I stand, stationary, and mute,
longing to participate in wars over the fall of wickets,
longing to weep for the delicately boned kites that
lie tangled in the treacherous branches of the neem trees.
But I, overused relic, must forever remain
on the fringes of lore.