narrative poem

they thought I was French
when they took him away
I sat on that bench
he had been my finance

I cried when they took him
to the deep dark place
where he lost limbs
where he lost face

we all lose ourselves down there
were the sun don't shine
they don't care
and it ain't fine
and it ain't fine

I miss him sometimes
when sitting in the park
and I fear the days spent, dimes
nickels, quarters wasted trying to make my mark

I try to show the world
that I'm here for a reason
and that reason will unfurl
rolling out to greet the warmth of the season

and that is why I'm here
and that is why I'm gone
one day spent sitting on a bench
forever in a con