Billy Roberts welcomed change like his favorite cousin from Manhattan sleeping over Christmas Eve.
He was just that sort of hip, confident person; Billy was the town poet.
His friends admired his ability to “go with the flow”, as most resist the unknown, lost sailors dreading the edge of the earth.
But not Billy, Mr. Straight-ahead-take-no-prisoners.
Billy used to mull away hours on his favorite bench in Las Cruces Park, his cowboy boots dangling over the edge, considering some verse he had read. Recently, he had been pouring over Rimbaud and Corso, mentors both.
But some time ago that bench began to splinter and crack; some even reported it had shrunk.
Meanwhile over time, the bench emanated companionship, familiarity, even divulging a particular warmness, especially when a friend of Billy’s accompanied him. And the park bench would often sense the rise and fall of its friend’s emotions, almost sentiently exuding a breath now and then, perhaps even a tear. Billy, this poet,without intention, had enchanted this bench.
But the magic lingered all too briefly: Billy’s unforeseen death dumbfounded everyone.
The latest research asserted cancer randomly attacks its victims like a true terrorist, despite genes or lifestyle or even good karma.
So it was not long after Billy’s death, devoid of companionship, that the Las Cruces park bench began morphing into a barren, parched place where nothing became everything and change mattered no more.
And it became apparent that sometime later another soul arose destined to humanize; one who could also quote Shakespeare or Kerouac, who chose to study and learn from the trees, and who would innocently, cryptically personify Billy and his Bench, inseparable entities beyond and into more lifetimes.
Spring 2015
Delray Beach, FL