Benches

Old men are found
On park benches
Like barnicles 
on a rock.

They sit and blow their noses
And tap their scuffed black shoes.

Sometimes they argue 
About ancient things
Like the War or the Depression.
And how the younger generation 
Is going to hell.

You can always tell
An old man.
He no longer plucks out the hair
Inside of his ears
And a two day white stubble
Is not an embarrasment.

They sit
And talk
And when the evening
Chill comes, they politely
Go home and die.

But other old men
Come along
And sit in their place
On the park benches
In the sun.