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Old Friends. Old Friends. Sat on their park bench like bookends.
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A newspaper blown through the grass falls on the round toes of the
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high shoes of the Old Friends.
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Old Friends. Winter companions the old men. Lost in their
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overcoats waiting for the sunset. The sounds of the city, sifting
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through trees, settle like dust on the shoulder of the Old Friends.
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Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly?
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How terribly strange to be seventy.
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Old Friends. Memory brushes the same years. Silently sharing the
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