Occupant

The brass is pitted, turning green at the edge,

screwed to a slat that is soft with the rot.

It sits by the pond at the end of the hedge,

marking a person the city forgot.

'A Lover of Sunsets,' the inscription declares,

under a streak of dried white from a bird.

I sit where they sat with my own heavy cares,

feeling the weight of a silent, stone word.

I’m trespassing here on a grief not my own,

resting my bones on a stranger's last view.

The wood is too cold and the park is alone,

and the sunset is turning a bruised kind of blue.