It sat on the the oldest bench
in New York City's park.
There was no one around
to claim the spiral bound journal.
Approaching it with slow steps,
I looked quizzically down
and read upon dark blue cover,
"Please take me home
Share your journey,
And pass me on"
Curious, cautious
I picked it up
and began to read.
Filled with poems
I wasn't quite sure what
to make of it at first.
Yet as I continued on,
I noticed dates, places.
Seven people
had held this book before me.
Seven people
had written tales of their lives.
It started by the river,
with life in a small town
in Virginia.
Traveled West with family of four--
the youngest brother wrote that one.
A new mother found it next
and wrote of her precious child,
her hopes and dreams,
of who her daughter would become.
Her brother found the book next,
then taking it with him on his flight,
he wrote about his war time overseas.
Left in the airport,
a history professor caught sight
of the spiral
smiled at shared memories
before writing a short piece
on his journey home.
Taking it with him, northbound,
it was left at the next terminal,
and picked up by the granddaughter
of  a WWII vet, staying with them
for the winter break.
She penned a piece before heading off to bed.
Tales of life left on the living room table,
The warrior wrote about
a short piece of his life he rarely shared.
A little after dawn the next day,
he followed his morning routine,
walking through the park near his home.
Then, resting on the oldest bench in the park,
he sat the journal down and finished his walk.