Old friends
Old friends
Sat on their park bench
Like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
Of high shoes
Of the Old Friend
Old friends
Winter Compainions
The old men
Lost in their overcoats
Waiting for the sunset
The sounds of the city
Sifting through the trees
Settle like dust
On the shoulders
Of the Old friend
Can you imagine us years from today
Sharing a park bench quietly?
How terrible strange to be seventy
Old friends
Memory brushes the same year
Silently sharing the same fear?
Writer(s): Stephen Sondheim
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