The Bench

A man used to sit here in the park.

They tell me his name was Ben.
He was old,
Or so they tell me,
Even older than the park itself.
He sat right here, where I sit now,
A plain
wooden bench.
He would toss,
Or so they tell me,
Bread pieces at the ducks.

“My, what I squabble!”
Or so they tell me.
“He never should have fed those things!”

He would smile
As the birds flocked to his feet,
Jumping to each tiny bit.

People would come to this park,
Or so they tell me,
To enjoy a Sunday picnic in quiet.
“But my, the noise!”

The park had become flooded with
Geese and Crows and Mallards and Pigeons
All nibbling at the picnics, all at the ankles of the picnickers,
They would flock together and raid entire meals.
The trees rustled with the incessant howl of chirps and squawks.
People were driven mad with the noise, forced to leave in packs.
The park was becoming an avian sanctuary,
Or so they tell me,
Where no one wanted to go.

All the while, Ben would sit on his bench and watch.

Some years later, the birds stopped coming.
The park was quiet,

Or so they tell me,
Ben had died of cancer on a wintry evening in January.

“This place is better off.”
Or so they tell me,
“Without that old man here, the park is ours again.”

But I see the park now, empty
With naught a sound but the wind.
I reach into my coat pocket,
And retrieve the sandwich I saved for lunch.
I hear wings over the trees, though nothing is around.