The Bench

Two men at the end of the road every Friday appear,
white beards long as the seasons,
long as the slow year.

Wrinkles carved by the weight of what each one has borne,
the life written in them,
weathered and worn.

I pass them on Fridays from inside the car,
the bench at the road's end, familiar, not far.

Sometimes they sit.
Or they’ll stand in the day.
Two old men with knowing
they’ll never give away.

I wonder what rivers the two of them crossed,
what the years asked of them,
what each of them lost.
What shaped them before I arrived on this road,
with my small life, my noise,
my bright ignorant load.

And still they come.
Friday.
The bench.
The road's end.

The white-bearded ritual, two men who attend
the silence between them,
the knowing they share,
grown over years that cost more than I'd spare.

Tended in silence.
Carried from week to week.
n the quiet of Fridays,
the thing they don't speak.