Keeping the Riffraff Out

Today's poem is based on an old, old memory.

You know how selective memory is. I don't recall precisely where it was, or even when, but I do recall that voice ... "Are you a resident, sir?" ... from behind me as I sat on that bench.

I don't think I felt particularly intimidated or even startled ... maybe just a little offended that I didn't have the freedom to pause briefly on an unoccupied bench ... not creating a disturbance ... just sitting there with my thoughts.

Of course, the empty bench did belong to someone else. They certainly had the right to protect it from intruders like me ... I suppose. After all, I might sit there and write a poem, you know.

Now that the incident has the benefit of being distanced by time, I think it's funny. I hope the poem reflects that.

KEEPING THE RIFFRAFF OUT

I was warming a bench

in a public park,

or so I thought,

next to a fancy

high-rise complex,

when a uniformed voice

(I knew by the sound)

inquired from behind:

"Are you a resident, sir?"

Swiveling to see

who my accuser might be,

I made obedient reply:

"Why, no, just passing by."

He drew himself up

and looked me down,

then delivered the words

with muscled authority:

"This is Private Property."

That left the next move

to me, so I slowly rose

and shambled away,

comforted in knowing

that when I live there

I'll be fully protected

from riffraff like me.

© 1996

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Today's word:

authority