It may seen somewhat trivial

An old white park bench by the pond
But stories are told
Each person that sits on the bench
In three hundred and sixty five days
Has a story hidden inside

The first week was a mother
She sat there every Sunday
Watching her children
A hawk eye on her only son
Making sure he didn't fall
When he runs away
Like his biological father had done

The second week was an older man
He comes to the bench to think
To think of what he should have tried
To save his raped and abused wife
Only just married she’d disappeared
Ten years later
he’d discovered what he’d feared
Wishing that their time together was greater
He would sit and think of his regrets

The third week always came two people
Always holding hands while sitting
Looking like the perfect couple
That no one understands
Looking like their in their own bubble
Becoming the envy of your love life
But all of this was just and act
The man was with another woman-
Her best friend

The fourth week sits a musician
Playing jazz every day
Trying to make money to survive
In the past her family was well off
And she had everything she’d wanted
But she wanted to be an artist
Something her parents disapproved of
Refusing to give up and listen
She moved out of her house
Became a musician on the streets
To finally live out her dream

On the fifth and final week came a daughter
The daughter of a newly deceased
To revel in the memories she had
Before her father had died
They used to sit on this bench
And talk about their day
He took care of her in every way
And made her his entire life

The bench has seen many stories
Beyond their covers laid secrets
That no one will discover
But the white worn wood of the park bench