reverie number seventeen

As I sit on a dilapidated
little park bench,
stolen from green grass
and wild tree tops,
smoking away
glimmers of life
that still throb within,
I am surrounded by a round of monkeys
I expect would snatch away
premeditated death from me
and hand me a bouquet of simmering roses.
Instead the round of monkeys
make do with only staring
at me with beady eyes
and baring fangs hidden
by jealous mouths from other times.