There is an old bench in the corridor of grandpa’s house.
It is rather strong for its age.
It is not ancient, just old.
I wonder the stories it would sing of, if it could bleed,
And complain and deny.
The secret recipes it would reveal from the knowledge of all the silently deadly farts it has held.
I wonder if it would feel useful because it went the extra mile to do more than what it was designed for.
Would it demand letters of apologies from all the shoes that rested on it so they could be dusted?
Would it chant “All Benches Matter?”
Or would it just shrug it off and say,
“That’s just my life. It is what it is?”
I wonder if the old bench in grandpa’s house would tell its crush “Sit on my face.”
Or if it would make the sign of the cross at the thought of anything filthy;
Like a crudely delivered malodorous fart
Would it know my name?
I don’t know. Maybe.
Wait. Of course it would.
Not my name though, just that of my black buttocks.
And how all that blackness choked the light out of its words.