Statues in the Park

Toward the end of day and wishing again for daylight. What's discernible is in evening's impending gloom. If we'd admit it, this is a sad occasion: us perched at separate ends of a park bench; block-headed statues in the dark looming behind us holding so dearly to one another. This is what makes art. What art makes of us: models for statues battling stubbornness. We try to one-up the other without too much effort, since that would lessen the impact of the plan. Which would be what, exactly? To wax sullen in the afterglow of day gone awry is to hold our tongues as best as we can. As for these statues, they bear no resemblance to any human frailty; though their actions speak as much about truth as any whose skulls are shaped to resemble childish drawings of perfect squares. Perhaps this suggests there is kindness in our obstinacy—each of us somehow regarding the gift of winning as if it were the daily courier arriving with news the earth is no longer a viable place to live. An absurdity, yes; though a game two men can play— holding and holding on, as if forever, to silence, fearing what becomes a man who clings only to what's left standing.