Old friends,
   Old friends
   Sat on their park bench
   Like bookends.
   A newspaper blown through the grass
   Falls on the round toes
   On the high shoes
   Of the old friends.
   Old friends,
   Winter companions,
   The old men
   Lost in their overcoats,
   Waiting for the sunset.
   The sounds of the city,
   Sifting through the trees,
   Settle like dust
   On the shoulders
   Of the old friends.
   Can you imagine us
   Years from today,
   Sharing a park bench quietly?
   How terribly strange
   To be seventy.
   Old friends,
   Memory brushes the same years.
   Silently sharign the same fear....