"The Park Bench" Poets United Thursday Think Tank #51-time-out

 It’s your mediocrity that filled rooms
and completed every yellowed page
The sound of your voice was
as coarse as your thoughts
Looking behind old closed doors …
they held answers
Windows opened when closed tightly,
paint accumulated in crevices,
years of wear, and weather beaten

Fountains contained no more water
Funnels were clogged from lack of use
Lyme built up visible from your caustic eyes
You had verified all minor complexities
held deep beneath the surface, like twisting
wire frames that no longer fit the picture

You never could’ve counted errors
of missed satisfaction,
or a dream of less perfect times
when you walked in those empty spaces
I can’t remember anything about you;
neither can the bench where you always sat