Down by the dying park, on the bench, sits a man with a story. It's heavy. He tells the story to anyone who comes within earshot, even the pigeons. At first, he had bread to toss. They came and he told the story to them. They don't come any more. He no longer brings the bread. After a person heard the story, you could see him brighten a bit. After a bird, less so. The air, hardly at all. At this rate, it will take a long time to tell the story down to something he can carry.
This poem originally appeared in Austin Best Poetry 2017-2018.