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Driftwood

Whatever could possibly have happened to it has, this ossified leviathan once the trunk of a great tree bulldozed by storm tide to the surf and knocked senseless to a shell bed,

its surface shorn of bark and weathered to the texture of sharkskin. The sun's bleached it sans mercy to a dull gray and the sea's cured its heart with salt, leaving its underbelly

crusted with barnacles even a screwdriver can't scrape off. It lumbers in the garish light of sun, blue moons, and stars, this bench of grandest benches itching for the buttocks of time.

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