Old friends, old friends sat on their parkbench like bookends

A newspaper blowin through the grass

Falls on the round toes of the high shoes of the old friends



Old friends, winter companions, the old men

Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sun

The sounds of the city sifting through trees

Settles like dust on the shoulders of the old friends



Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a parkbench quietly

How terribly strange to be seventy



Old friends, memory brushes the same years, silently sharing the same fears