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.
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.
Memory brushes the same years.
Silently sharing the same fear.