The Grass in the Middle

As I sit upon this mass-produced bench,
My unbelonging wafting round me, (oh the stench!)
I wonder if there is anything sadder than waiting alone.
Then I hear the ringing of the phone.
When I pick it up, I hear on the other line,
The voices of not valuing my own free time
Or not even having any of it to claim,
and of not having a purpose I hold as close as my name.
It turns out that there is a purpose in this call:
To introduce me to things sadder—some, not all.