Municipal Bench

June 15 2016

A formidable bench

is bolted to a flat concrete slab

that is set in the grass 

of my neighbourhood park.

It will not be moved,

just like those hard moulded seats

in fast-food eateries

where leisurely dining is frowned upon.

Not to face toward the sun.

Not to turn, and snatch-up,

scurrying off

in a sudden storm.

Not to view the toddlers, and their eagle-eyed moms

on the blandly modern

jungle-gym,

declawed of risk.

A fixed bench seat

on a rectangular slab

on nicely manicured grass.

The triumph of order

in this small patch of green.

But I feel caged, on its weathered wooden slats

hungering for wildness.

And while concrete can last 2000 years,

the sidewalks have cracked 

by weeds pushing-up from beneath.

The conceit of control

when contingency rules.

The impermanence of things

our lives are too brief

to fathom.

Once again, I find I’ve returned to this theme of man’s hubris, his belief that he stands apart from nature:  the manicured grass and straight lines of concrete set against the wildness and relentlessly encroaching weeds; the ironically named jungle-gym; the illusion of safety.