Benches. Every other one with the name of someone dead. An Arthur, a Stan, two Violets jostle for space in my head. As I jog the park's perimeter, I know little of the deceased, but in their loving memory, outdoor seating has increased.
Out of breath, I slump on the nearest, dripping sweat. Do my buttocks splayed on the slats, dishonour Ethel's death? Is the scratched graffiti Jez woz 'ere an attempt at immortality? Will someone pay for a bench after my own unknown fatality?
Recovered, I jog on, another circuit complete. How many more to go before I get my memorial seat? As I run around in circles, a whirlwind forms in the park. Benches come loose from bases and fly off into the dark
abyss that waits for matter, man and memories.
About the poet: Lisa Kelly is a freelance journalist.