There is a bench inside of a rose garden within a park beside the Pacific Ocean. I sit on this bench, often, to read or write or think or meditate or look up at the sky. Beneath the bench is a plaque. On the plaque is an inscription about a man named Dennis. Dennis died in 1989, according to the plaque. I fantasize that his loving family or dearest friends made the beautiful effort to orchestrate a string of words which sing a song that is Dennis. Dennis: who always took the time to smell The Roses, it reads. I know Dennis, even though we never met.