Stranger on a Park Bench
She sits alone on the park bench. She holds no book, no leash, no sandwich. A freshly pressed suit adorns her frail figure, the skirt smoothed to perfection. A loose bun perches upon her head, wisps of hair floating around her face.
The tree nearby has few leaves waving in the breeze. It’s trunk is dark, and its branches appear ready to fall. A newspaper from the day before blows past the bench, unnoticed. Behind her the slide is rusted, and the swing hangs on one side by a single chain. A man wrapped in a blanket stumbles past, looking for a place to rest.
All around the sounds of the city rage. Horns blare on the busy street nearby. People shout at each other on the sidewalk, some to be heard, others in anger. All around her is the controlled chaos of the inner city.
Yet she sits, hands loosely in her lap. Her head is held high, but her eyes appear to see nothing. She is out of place, out of time, lost in her own thoughts. I approach, thinking to ask if she is well. She does not acknowledge my presence, and I awkwardly retreat and move on.