Old friends sat on their park bench like bookends,
A newspaper blowing through the grass,
Falls on the round toes 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 freaks.
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 fears.
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