"All the lonely people, where do they all come from?" the old man mused from his perch on the park bench.

"Where the streets have no name," his stooped friend answered glibly from beside him.

"Lonely," he sighed, "I'm so lonely, I have nobody to call my own. I'm so lonely, I'm Mr. Lonely!"

"Well, that's alright . . . that's alright for you," the friend answered sagely.

"I'm so lonesome I could cry," the old man muttered.

"Please don't worry about a thing," his friend assured him, "'cause every little thing is gonna be alright."

"How often people change, no two remain the same, why things don't always turn out as you planned," the old man paused looking at his dry dusty shoes, "These are the things I don't understand . . ."

The friend remained silently in thought and the old man suddenly added, "Yeah, these are the things I don't understand."

The friend finally spoke up, "it's all relative. Even if we don't understand, and that's well understood," he looked at the old men earnestly, "especially when we don't understand - then it's just because. Even if we don't understand then let's all just believe."

"Been dazed and confused for so long," the old man said in bewilderment and pointing his finger at his friend, he declared, "it's not true."

"Miracles can happen, when you believe," the friend offered, placing a hand on the old man's shoulder.

"Nothin' new, nothin' new," the old man sputtered, "y'all ain't saying nothin' new."

"Does my happiness upset you?" the friend asked pointedly, "Why are you best with gloom?"

"Because the sky is blue, it makes me cry," the old man answered, "because the sky is blue . . . aaaaah."

"I see clouds of blue, clouds of white, bright blessed days, warm sacred nights and I think to myself," the friend paused for a moment, "what a wonderful world."

"How can you be sitting there, telling me that you care - that you care," the old man shook his head, "when everytime I look around the people suffer in suffering in everyway, everywhere?"

"In every life we have some trouble, but when you worry you make it double," the friend said assuringly, "don't worry, be happy."

"The whole world is wrong it seems , oh, I guess it's the chains that bind me," the old man intoned darkly, "I can't shake it loose. These chains and things."

"They say freedom, oh, freedom is just another place to hide. Now I'm coming to you with my arms open wide," the friend held out his arms to embrace the old man.

"It's getting dark, too dark to see, I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door." the old man pushed his friend away grimly.

"You've gotta walk and don't look back," the friend declared, "If it's love that you're running from there is no hiding place. Just your problems, no one else's problems you just have to face."

"Sittin' here resting my bones," the old man pondered, "and this loneliness won't leave me alone."

"Everything is everything," the friend shrugged, "what is meant to be, will be. After winter, must come spring. Change it comes eventually."

"I’ve squandered my resistance for a pocketful of mumbles," the old man grumbled, "such are promises."

"Did you exchange a walk on part in the war, for a lead role in a cage?" the friend asked in exasperation.

"But people just don't seem to understand how someone can feel so blue . . . they call me Mr. Pitiful," the old man bit a quivering lip.

"Give me one reason to stay here and I'll turn right back around," the friend stumbled to his feet and turned to leave.

"Because maybe you're gonna be the one who saves me?" the old man offered.

"Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps."