The Bench

He was sitting on the bench, taking in the sun
At ninety-six years, his life was nearly done
The lady saw him sitting there and stopped for a little talk
As she passed the nursing home taking her morning walk.

She ask what his life was like, where was he born
Did he have to pick cotton and chop rows of corn?
He told her he picked cotton, remembering it oh so well
Remembered the green spider bites and bole spikes under his nail.

He said “I could pick nigh a hundred pounds a day”
“My baby brother ridin’ on my sack, slept a while and then would play”
He had the longest sack of anyone in the field
Filling it full of cotton, his back aching enough to kill.

He was the fastest picker, picking the long, long rows
Not leaving the cotton field until the lamp light glows
He picked without a hat, never had a pair of shoes
Remembered all the songs he sang about the black man’s blues.

He talked about the pecan orchard and how he’d shake the trees
Picking pecans all day long while bending on his knees
The old man looking so wistful thinking of the past
She wanted to ask if he had family but was afraid to ask.