Old friends
Old friends
Sat on their parkbench like bookends
A newspaper blown 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 sunset
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