There are a few pilgrimages, I would like to

journey to before I die:

A bench in the Golden Gate Botanical Gardens,

dedicated to a forgotten man named Micheal.

Hours spent reading and contemplating life.

An obvious one, my first bedroom.

There is talk of selling it I have no

control over. Perhaps the new owners

will let in a melancholic old man.

My life is just one of many. These are

religious places for me, for others

where they sit to read their book,

or have sex, or cry.

I’d like a bench named “Fynn”

who welcomes others to their mundane

tasks that others have done thousands of times

on this endless monoplane.