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.

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