This park bench gets so cold, so worn.
Sitting here
perplexed by the motions,
the grays, all in different shades;
all going
nowhere.

This bench and I, we're friends;
He's a little
quiet,
but he means well.

I've been distant lately,
removed.
I'm not sure that he
cares;
at least, he doesn't show it.

We both see things in the same way;
all the gray wisps of condensation.
Don't get me wrong,
we both
see color,
but its rummy.

we are
always going to be the
same temperature.