The idea for my poem was inspired by this week’s W3 Poetry Prompt #218, where the Poet of the Week is Benjamin Nambu (you’ll find the full prompt guidelines at the foot of the page)
Benjamin’s prompt led me not to the quiet we seek, but to the silence that follows an absence — the once‑busy conversations at the bar giving way to an empty chair.
I hope you enjoy The Empty Chair and the guest poem that follows it.
The Empty Chair
I look at the chair,
the empty chair
at the bar.
You sat there —
for years —
fixing the world’s problems.
We’d laugh,
then tears.
I’d buy another half
and drink to your health
We’d clink glasses —
cheers.
I look at the chair,
the empty chair
at the bar.
And I wonder
where you are
—Lesley Scoble, June 2026
Audio — The Empty Chair
Narrated by me
Guest Poem — by Larry Viner
I’d like to introduce you to a poem by an old friend, Larry Viner — a poem I think is brilliant, one I wish I could have written. To me, it fits Benjamin’s prompt perfectly.
Larry’s Poem
Today …I am alone.
In the park.
In the place where I scattered the ashes.
Sid, Doris (Mum and Dad) and Dodger, my faithful Golden retriever.
I am thinking about Annie.
I think she died of a broken heart.
Not the kind they write down on certificates,
not the kind doctors point to on a chart.
The slower kind.
The kind that arrives one disappointment at a time,
one more lonely winter,
one more unanswered letter,
one more vanished friend.
I met her on this bench in the garden
at Golders Hill Park.
That’s all.
No grand history.
No exchanged numbers.
No promises.
Just two people occasionally occupying the same patch of earth
while the world hurried past pretending it had somewhere important to be.
She carried stories the way some people carry shopping bags—
too many,
too heavy,
and always threatening to split open.
There were books.
Poems.
Old loves.
Ancient wounds she spoke of as if they’d happened yesterday.
I listened.
Sometimes that’s all anybody really wants.
Not fixing.
Not advice.
Just another heartbeat nearby.
She told me things people usually save for Rabbis and Priests,
or the ceiling at three in the morning.
Maybe because I smiled.
Maybe because I asked how she was doing
and waited for the answer.
Most people don’t.
Years passed that way.
Not together.
Just intersecting.
Two drifting boats acknowledging each other through the fog.
Then one day last year… she wasn’t there.
And after a while
you stop expecting someone to return.
Today I sat on our bench again.
The trees were still there.
The wildflowers were still there.
The indifferent sky carried on above it all,
same as ever.
I told her she had been a fine old lady.
I told her that the world had not always been kind,
but that kindness had survived in her anyway.
I told her that dying among the trees
with the birds and the wind
was perhaps not the worst ending a poet could ask for.
No Ambulances.
No hospital lights.
Just earth reclaiming one of its own.
I don’t know where she was born.
I don’t know how old she was.
I never knew her surname.
We were Larry and Annie.
Sat on their park bench like
Bookends ( Thank you, Paul)
Sometimes a stranger leaves a shape in your life.
A small one.
A bench-sized shape.
And it's only when they’re gone,
the whole world seems to notice the absence.
Rest easy, Annie.
The sparrows are still here.
The trees remember.
And somewhere beneath the flowers,
all that loneliness has finally been laid down.
Time to go home Larry...
©️Larry Viner
Say hi to Larry 👋
W3 Prompt #218 prompt guidelines
To read the full prompt guidelines click below.
Benjamin’s prompt: The quiet we longed for
When life becomes overwhelmingly busy, we often dream of having time to ourselves. We imagine a long-awaited vacation, a quiet weekend, retirement, or simply a chance to catch our breath. Then, at last, the busy days end.
At first, the freedom feels wonderful. But sometimes, after the novelty wears off, the silence begins to feel different. We find ourselves missing the routines that once exhausted us, the people who filled our days, the conversations, the laughter, and even the familiar chaos. Sometimes we think of someone who drifted out of our lives and wonder whether a little more patience or understanding might have changed the story.
Have you ever experienced such a moment? What did the quiet teach you? Or perhaps you’ve watched someone else go through it. What thoughts, memories, or emotions does it awaken in you?
Write whatever this prompt brings to mind. Your poem may take any form, with no restrictions on length.
Acknowledgements
My thanks to Benjamin Nambu for his inspirational prompt.
Gratitude, as always, to David of The Skeptics Kaddish, without whom so much poetry would go unwritten.
Enormous thanks to my friend, Larry Viner, for allowing me to share his poem.
And last — but by no means least — my thanks to you, the reader, for being here.
LesleyScoble.com 
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