Tuppence for your thoughts

We could grow old together, you know? But we would be the kind of elderly people that hold intellectual discussion on park benches in the gloaming. On separate park benches I mean because our love is of the mind only and actually we never speak, we just feed the birds in tandem. Dip and scatter, dip and scatter. The old rhythm sounds monotonous to the mothers pushing perambulators. The children are lulled instantly to sleep by the crackle of seed and the cooing of satisfied pigeons. But it's a sham really, a disguise for the intimacy of our conversation, the Morse code of our throws, the ping of a sunflower shell, the plink of millet and cracked corn that means, I have seen the truth today in a loaf of sliced bread and in the pattern of cracks on a white wall. We look down, gum our dentures further into our mouths and hum.