I do nothing but sit on this old park bench Rusty, much like me As the prime life I had, done came and went Like a tattered leaf on a Winters breeze
How long now I've lost count As the world passes me by No longer chained to the fast lane Or the corporate ladder I once tried to climb
Now with plenty of room for a conversation or two Of the few who catch my eye I invite them to sit but they're usually quick To move along with their own busy lives
I find it odd now at the sights and sounds I never seemed to notice before Guess it comes with the gray AKA old age Just ask the pigeons and squirrels
With shortened days at best about all I have left I'm given time to think about Old memories that keep haunting me Like a *** looking for a handout
As I do nothing but sit on this lonely park bench Shivering to the Winter breeze Waiting for death to reach out his hand And grab ahold of me, as I no longer seem to be in need