The Old Bench

I had used it dozens of time,
that dilapidated park bench,
wood faded and cracked,
gray concrete legs chipped,
facing that grassy meadow
bordered by pine trees,
a circular fountain in the middle
with an angel in the center
spitting water into the pool.

All those days I sat there,
watched the birds fly by,
children running on the emerald carpet,
sunlight warm and soothe the spirit,
but it all was a predictable panorama,
being a listless scenic canvas,
which didn’t riveting my mind in any special spells.

Then in a moment of idleness,
my brain suddenly erupted,
imaging that fount cherub dancing,
raining forth rainbows and butterflies,
as the sky filled with silver saucers,
before envisioning parachuting red cactus
landing on the clearing,
who turned into golden sirens.

Just as I was about to join them
with my head spinning from the creativity,
it all evaporated from the sound of a car backfiring.

Never forget that vision,
how it swirled inside with such intense excitement
so I couldn’t sit in that seat again
and not relive the experience.