Sat on their park bench like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Winter companions the old men
The sounds of the city sifting through trees
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
Time it was, and what a time it was
They're all that's left you
