At the left side of Liberty Road, forsaken,
even by the trash collectors, twice,
once white wicker, sagging from so many
summer nights of loving or the loneliness
of generations of grandmothers' laps and
the climbing or curiousity of young children.
Oh, what whispers and lies, if you could speak
legs lopsided, yet still standing,
rain falling in a soft deluge,
soaking faded green cushions which
disappeared during the night the moon dimmed,
leaving you so bereft, so unprotected from
the greyest sky and hidden sun
of morning's light, except for
a soggy cardboard sign, FREE, handwritten
in permanent black.
Oh, for all that is broken, falling apart,
full of holes and worn thin places,
for the emptiness of what once was
I sing a song of longing.