A newspaper blowin? 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