If I Were a Park Bench

My neighbor the white shutter has turned into a plant
That hangs in his window now that spring has come.
Spring like the sense of purpose, like a man standing on his feet,
Has folded away the shutter that my neighbor had
To live as, grasping his single self
And bending it into several, turning each face
To face itself, and storing them all away
Like the sun folding a snowfield. How much better my neighbor looks
As a sign that winter is over, as a thing
That the spring grew, and an image of one man's hope
That somehow down inside where it matters
We are more than the essence of
What meets the eye.
And my good friend the dull silence has turned into a moan
That sighs through my ceiling from its room upstairs.
What a pleasure the silence takes in finding the perfect body
To sigh from, a body that can breathe, a body
With two feet that must be
Pointed toward the ceiling, where its good friend
The scream is gathering air. Ah what a sound it makes
Just to hear what a sound it makes sighing
The silence out of the body of our sighs.
How much better my close companion the empty mailbox
Looks as the perfect answer to a letter's patient where.
And my fellow traveler the park bench, my comrade in Seclusion,
What a pleasure to see him now, turning up as the honored seat
At this party the growing grass throws, now that the day is warm.
If I were a park bench my open arms would be a signal.
If I were a speech, dear friends would soon appear.
But since I'm my sole survivor, this bloodless abstraction,
This poor boneless being, a thing of words I've had
To live as, how much better I'm going to look
As the reason you've come over, transformed
By the very knuckles you use
To knock on my door.