I sit on a bench by the river at dusk
like millions of people have done before me
and millions will do again when I'm gone.

The river, flowing slowly as it likes to do,
will never read this poem,
though it does offer a shimmering surface
for people in boats to float by.

These people will also never read this poem
and that is just fine with me.

I am not writing this poem for them,
I am writing this poem for you,
though there is an excellent chance
you and I have never kissed, held each other, or even met
which is also fine with me, both of us
already having a lot of wonderful people in our lives --
more people than rivers I might add,
including the old man we pass on the street
once or twice each week and smile
though we do not know his name.

I like sitting by the river, watching the ducks,
and the way the color of the water
changes darkly as the sun goes down.

I like watching the large grey house
on the other side of the river,
the one with two big maple trees in front
and who knows how many families have lived there before
and how the gutters are holding up.

Look, to my right!
Here comes a young couple holding hands!

They sit down on the park bench next to mine
and talk about something, though I cannot tell you what.

Her dress is white.
Two seagulls make their way across the sky.
The clouds are also white.

Just a few inches in front of my eyes
many gnats are dancing,
not one of them leaves formation to bother or bite me.
They make no sound,
not like tonight's last motorboat
heading up river,
not like the silence now ringing in my ears
like the pauses in a symphony
I will never write.

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