Foundation

I've sat on this bench all week

and today I looked at what holds me—

the concrete underneath,

cracked and tired,

breaking the way things break

when they've been holding weight

too long, too patient, too tried

and tested by ordinary people

like me who don't think

about what's underneath

until it starts to crack.

Not dramatic.

Just patient failure,

small fractures spreading

like veins, like the surface

is learning to let go,

like it's tired of the show

of being solid,

of being permanent,

of being the kind of thing

you trust without asking.

Some sections worn smooth

from years of sitting.

Other sections rough,

sharp enough to draw blood.

I did.

My hand came back red.

The bench was built to last.

Poured with concrete's promise—

solid, dependable, steady—

the kind of thing that keeps

holding even when it's ready

to give, to crack, to break.

But ready and breaking

are the same thing

if you wait long enough.

Permanent is just

slow collapse on a schedule

too long to see

while you're sitting on it,

while you're adding your weight

to the fate

of bringing it down.

I sat anyway.

Every day I add myself

to the fractures.

Every day it holds

and fails,

fails

and holds at the same time.

Next week it might crack further.

Eventually someone will replace it.

A new bench.

New concrete.

New promises about lasting.

For now it's here,

breaking quietly

under the ordinary weight

of ordinary people

who don't think about fate

until it's too late.