The sandwich tasted fine

The sandwich tasted fine,

dry bread and turkey.

But the brass plate, a small design,

caught my eye, murky

with age.

Eleanor Vance, it said,

1930 to 2005.

A life, lived and then shed.

No face to make it come alive

for me.

Just a name, a set of dates,

on this hard park wood.

Someone's sorrow, that translates

to public, understood

quietly.

I wonder what she liked,

what kind of days she spent.

The sun glints, sharply spiked

on the plaque, a sentiment

I don't own.

It's strange, to share a meal

with a ghost you never knew.

The weight of what was real

for someone, passing through.

Just sitting there.