Old friends. Old friends.
Sat on their park bench 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, shifting through 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 sharing the same fears.
Time it was and what a time it was, it was a
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories,
they're all that's left you.