The old men in the park
have benches that belong to them,
by rights of time spent.
Shapeless, they sit in their worn grey suits,
faces collapsing into soft folds of brown wrinkles.
Leathered hands tremble their way
through yesterday’s “News”.
But, the old men see what passes
as we rush by, unaware of their glances.
We are filled with the passion
of our different dreams.
Young men have not yet learned
dreams are always the same.
It is only the dreamers who change,
into old men in the park.
Shirley Alexander's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (What Passes by Shirley Alexander )
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