The old man sits on his park bench
Whistling the theme song to Gilligan’s Island
Wearing his thick red socks
And reading the Sunday Comics
He doesn’t go to church much
But he’s always finding God
In a fresh green apple
In children’s laughter on the air
And in the wrinkled photograph in his front pocket

The old sits on his park bench
Talking to a stranger about the autumn leaves
And about the chalk pictures on the sidewalk
And about the wrinkled photograph
He can’t move very quickly
And he misses running ‘til her ran out of ground
And climbing ‘til he ran out of tree
Though he still enjoys the shade from the tall oak

The old man sits on his park bench
Looking at the wrinkled photograph
There’s no color in it, but he sees them in his head
That flower would’ve been violet, and her hair would’ve been gold
He’s one of those good storytellers
And this is his favorite to tell:
Of a golden haired girl and young boy
Who promised each other forever

The old man sits on his park bench
Whistling and reading and watching the world turn
Missing those old days
When he didn’t sit alone
He’s not bitter though
He’s happy to have the memories
She may have left before his forever was gone
But he still has the wrinkled photograph in his front pocket