A steel seat is a warm companion, it believes. Blanket covering to wrap around it like winter winds around a walker. In light or dark, by its bolts it stays grounded. Noise echoes from the passerby passing by peacefully. Noise like a shout, a cry, a whimper. The seat stays still, unwavering yet quivering. I see it teeter back and forth, its screws loosening. What good is a companion with none? Silent and selfish, steeling itself off from the surrounding noiselessness of the noisy passerby. A child pouting in its own corner. In a space set for that child only fitting one. A clanking erupts, the seat, the source. It reminds me. Something kept awake by what it dreams of. Fearing not to fear as it becomes the ideal of its mental enemy. I see its struggle. In the open front of the fight, feeling its struggle close in: the worst of its fears. Hard for it to grip what itself is against, itself. Hoping, loudly it struggles, loud enough for the passerby passing by to hear. But, your noises are met with nothing. Plea and pout and profess and proclaim and present yourself. The rusting shades of your confidence crumbling with the empty expanse that greets you. The passerby gone. But by its bolts, the silent seat is stuck like steel. Its noises made to meet the noiseless room. The passerby gone. Gone.
Hard to sit. Seat feels like stone. Probably because it is. I cannot stand because my legs
Are dead like them. Dead.
It was too fast. Couldn’t control it. You couldn’t have.
I can hear it, passing, spinning. See it?
Wait, wait. Listen.
Look (unlike before).
There’s the screeching, nor the breaking.
No cracking this time? Not true, your spirit is.
My legs are hurt too, my body is hurt too, my heart is hurt too.
Why sit on the stone seat then?
It feels like the only place to be. Elsewhere…
I see them, seeing me. Staring. Glaring. Dead eyes like those eyes.
Is it your fault?
Stop, stop stop stop. Stop thinking about it. Look up and let go.
Look up like you didn’t?
You can’t control what you can’t see.
Just like you to go one without looking. No control.
I can’t control anything. Without thinking, or looking. Nothing.
Another one passes. Jump out and feel the same way as then.
See for yourself what you didn’t see.
I deserve it.
Dennis Nichols is a first-year student in the College of Arts and Sciences at Boston University. He is currently working towards a degree in Computer Science. Aside from poetry, he finds both sports and computer crafting enchanting, and is open to debate and discussions about any of the Boston-area sports teams, even the often-forgotten New England Revolution.