It is an open bench, but it is chained to the ground. It faces the rails, but it will never see where they lead. I sit on the bench. I know where the rails lead, but I cannot tell the bench. It wouldn't understand.

Around the corner is a sculpture: a man with a missile through his chest. I know this. I have seen it. But all this bench can see is the missile. The bench can see the danger, but it cannot see the pain. The ground it is chained to won't let it. It must take it in faith that what it sees is true and is all.

Twenty minutes to go. Waiting on this open bench. People pass by and we watch them together. Two wild kittens play by the trees. Ants run along the bench. The sun shines through the tallest tree. This is life, says the bench. This is the world. This is all that matters. There may be danger, but not pain. There is no pain here. Not on this ground.

Fifteen minutes to go. The light posts stand tall, but they are dark. Who needs them when we already have the sun? Foolish. Behind them two bushes stand side-by-side. One faces me, but the other looks off to the side. I don't like that one. They are essentially the same bush. They look the same. They are the same size and shape. Yet it is the one that faces me that I find more attractive. It looks at me, and I know me, and I know me is safe.

Ten minutes to go. Leaves pile outside the rails. They are waiting. They will be broken down and turned to dirt. They know this, yet they do nothing. They accept it. It's their purpose, so why fight it? Leaves have no resistance, and so they are easy to break down. They die to serve the one who tossed them to the ground.

Five minutes to go. The sun is blinding now. Even the tallest tree isn't enough to block the sun. The bench is open to it, but the sun will go over its head and the bench will not see it. But that's okay. It is only what lies in front of the bench that matters. The sun will matter later. The bench remains open.

Time to go, around the corner, where I know there is something that matters. My chain is longer, after all. The leaves rustle.