Park Bench

There is a man who
sits on me,
lies on me,
lives on me.

Occasionally he will rise to
"do his business" somewhere
or go food-scavenging somewhere,
but he always returns.
Does it feel like coming home?
I wouldn't know,
having never left mine.

Humans would probably not be pleased if they had to
allow strangers to place all their weight on them
day in and day out,
but I am honored that this man chose
as his home.

Firstly, he and I are good friends.
I'm a park bench.
That's what I do.