i saw a little bench in white
with large enamel flowers and leaves
i was en route to florence, free
for autumn had begun to freeze
shafts of sunlight made it art.
if i could paint it now, I would.
it seemed to speak to me somehow
i didn't hear, but it felt good
i wondered who had courted there
or who had wept for someone dear.
if it were me, how would i cope
when seating someone selling gear
so who has known this little bench?
oh, gentry types, oh, rats and mice
battered women, crack whore pimps...
kids holding hands, sharing sweets, being nice
so what has been will steel itself
and proudly will not ever turn
refusing abjectly to help
a nincompoop like me to learn
and history has seen the lot
and knows, thru hooting eyes shut wise,
that selling smack is sharing sweets
seen thru another pair of eyes
