The final hour of a public servant

          The old picnic table sat vacant in the unkempt lot; its weathered timbers dappled in the early morning mist. The overcast sky above was foreboding, but, the table did not mind; it had seen its share of unpleasant weather. Over two decades of central Ontario exposure had brought with them everything from scorching summer rays, to bitter arctic winds. The table, its benches eroded and deeply etched, by the unruly hand of nature, had seen it all. From this humble vantage point, in the small patch of urban parkland, it had watched the grass and leaves spring to life and shrivel into the decay of death a hundred times over; it had seen life come and go, and had stood a sentinal over the years. The bench had shared many moments with transient passers-by, had been a lounge for summer tourists, and a much needed bed for many a weary hobo.



          The table had always welcomed the company. An unbiased compatriot, the old bench had never once passed judgement upon those who had afforded it their time. It had never shunned its visitors, nor had it questioned their intentions. Sure, the table had felt the stab of the occasional pocket blade, yet it had not been angered; it wore the carved initials, poetry, or quickly carved images, like tattoos; badges of honor, each one representing a small piece of those whom had made their sojourn upon its aging planks.



          The table treasured the years it had spent a humble public servant, eager to provide leisure and reflection to anyone so inclined to share a moment of fraternity with it. However, recent days had not brought many travelers. Every year, it seemed, fewer and fewer loafers made the outdoors their home. People had begun to neglect the table; they no longer seemed to have time to daydream. Perhaps life had gotten busier? The rat-race of progress had started to call people indoors. As sad as it seemed to the aged ponderer, the world simply didn't allow for relaxation. The imagination now bore a premium and the mind was directed to nullifying pursuits like the television, or the never ending quest for the almighty dollar.



        "I wonder" thought the table, "Doesn't anyone dream anymore?"



The rain began to fall.