The Dark Side of the Park

Smaning teenagers, trying to be cool,
scrawl "U R gay on one of my bare arms.
A scruffy terrier on a seemingly endless
extendable lead pisses up my leg again.
Others laugh at me, safe in well-lit positions,
while a guy fucks a girl, her head resting on my back.
A tramp who smells of old shit instead of Old Spice
lies prostrate on top of me, vomits on the floor by my feet.
Nobody wants my seclusion in the rain, walking by
huddled in overcoats while I sit naked but for a lick of paint.
Council employees forget to empty the bin by the side of me
and pigeon shit sticks to me, catching the weary unawares.
A woman sits and weeps, gulping a cheap litre of vodka,
mascara tracks on her face as she swallows her pills.
I want to put my arms around her but I can't reach,
I sit in silence, unable to offer anything but hard comfort.
The sound of sirens, paramedics lift her from my lap,
too late, and the newspaper reporter tells the story.
'OD woman found slumped on park bench' the headline,
a bench on the dark side, I was her final resting place.

© Clare Hill 2006