Poetry: Who is sitting in the empty seat?

A poem about contemplating on emptiness. Is emptiness ever permanent?

I saw an empty seat, confined in the park.

I asked myself, "who is sitting there now?"

I answered, "Well, it's myself, in my mind,

but perhaps the designer is seated there too."

But who else must have sat down on that seat?

Maybe God, in the night, ventured out to view,

a loose screw, so as to ascertain, why it's askew.

God had left his mark in the dark there then too.

The fruitfly flies towards the fruit and lands on it today.

Is the fruit intermediately bad, or is it still good as new?

The fruit was good, but now it soon became bad,

but who was to construe, why this was now true?

I sat down on that seat, and I thought about things.

What would my mind bring to me, if anything now?

It flew up to the sky, as it saw a bird there, somehow,

then down again fast, as an ant crawled up my pants.