Tin Bender

Space is only another kind of time.
The last time I visited
The Harold Bench, it was hot

And I'd done too much talking
About the nature of things
In a crowded hall the night

Before, mugging for the crowd
In the muggy summer air.
I've been aging. I needed

Notes to keep myself on track.
When I said Aristotle,
Newton or Einstein out loud,

I was wandering within,
Thinking of a profession
I'd never heard of, bending

Tin. A friend told me of it
The day before that, same friend
Told me, some years ago, now,

That a vagrant might have wrenched
The brass memorial plate
Away from the Harold Bench

To sell for a little change.
Seemed hardly worth it, to me,
Back on the bench in the heat,

Seeing the scar, the lake, boats,
Fish jumping, a few tourists,
The stream turning into space.