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 sun   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