Bench - 26/07/22 Poem by Banksoya Sauce

Wet patches form on my aching shoulder.
The trees only cover half of the bench.
If you allowed me to,
I would sit in the open.

I would offer you the cleaner side:
The side that has been not yet broken by time,
The side that would hold you up firmly.

I will sit here until the bench rots under me,
Feeling it squirm and wriggle.
Wanting a break from its inevitable duty,
I will ignore its screams.

For your sake.