(Published in Viewless Wings online poetry magazine)
We lived for a time in London’s Marylebone neighborhood
On Chiltern Street, a stone’s throw from Paddington Park
It rains most of the time in London regardless
of the time of year—my husband says this
is what he loves most about London
you appreciate when the sun
does come out
Our dog loved our walks
through Paddington Park probably
because of the other dogs he’d meet
A variety of roses grow robustly there, probably
because of the incessant rain and the city’s tending
Benches are dedicated to people who have passed away
who once declared this to be their beloved park, probably
because they took refuge there from rushing to work, rushing home
On one of our strolls through the park I noticed a heavyset man
slumped on one of the benches, his eyes closed
his body rumpled beneath a pressed shirt
I thought he was sleeping, perhaps he
had grown tired from walking
Then I realized
he had died
Two police officers
arriving at the same conclusion
tried to waken him—one left to seek help
the other sat next to the man as if they were friends
solidarity through gentle touching, shoulder to shoulder
a macabre camaraderie, the deceased unaware of the living presence
How lonely the man must have been when he chose to sit on that bench
I looked away and continued past the rose bushes and other benches
past a children’s play area, exited the park, strolled along
Marylebone High Street and stopped by a café
drank a cup of hot tea at an outside table
my dog patiently curled by my feet
thought of the man on the bench
How lonely death is
no matter the
setting
Almost
an hour later,
I circled back through the park
and noticed the same police officer,
still seated by the dead man, eyeing the park entrance
for his partner to return. We both nodded, sucked our lips
into a half pout, as if we worked for the same miserable boss, no
idea when help would arrive. How lonely death is, no matter the weather
