portrait of the artist as a small man

portrait of the artist as a small man

a weather bleached bench
gapes onto a pale blue sky,
fallen leaves, spilled over
the ground
as copper blood-letting.
here,
is a Sunday place;
a place of forgetting.

the grumble
of far away traffic, retreats
behind the calling of crows.
i am small inside their sound.
insignificant
against the dew diamond grass,
scooping downward
to a medley of trees
blown brown by October.

thoughts have little currency here.
tufted, cresting clouds
last longer, and
mean more.

soon i will be gone from here.
the memory of me, just
a dry shape on a damp bench;
footprint bruises
sinking back to the loam.

a fleeting life,
who passed by
at roam.