Old friends, old friends,
 Sat on the 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 sound 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 terrribly strange to be seventy
 Old friends, memory brushes the same years
 Sliently sharing the same fears.