My favourite bench is vacant.
A man stands in a sunbeam breathing hard through his nose. Perhaps close up his nostrils are flaring.
Mothers wait at school gates, happy to have something to fill the afternoon with. On a nice day like this anything is possible. Frightened children whine at crossings. Bold ones stamp and crush the leaves.
From here I can see so much of London. The Shard, the Millennium Wheel, the Gherkin. But I am glad to be far away.
I can tell now the scarf she gave me is acrylic not wool. The tell-tale plasticy sweat.
This bench is for R.K. Never being boring. Great hair. Big smile. 1974-2011. Only nine years my senior.
I am so sorry to only be able to see things from where I stand. I do not want to be involved. I do not really live here.
It is no longer an interesting situation.
S.N. 1955-2008. She loved this park. Stop and rest a while.
Caught between young and old I no longer yearn for travel. I am almost unbearably fond of this place. The longer I stay the more I uncover.
A white dog streaks along the black path.
From here the world is safe. No blood and shit behind those windows. No medications, dead pets, insomnias and good intentions. No tiny Christmas tree in the window. I want so much to be all these people. I want so much to be that cat slinking along the wall.