I sit at this table, wrapped,
in my hands the smell of hot coffee.
The window, iced up on the inside,
shows the early traffic.
Pushing towards the tallest buildings,
her busy sidewalks covered in dark snow.

Coming from an old transistor
with a coat hanger antenna.
The heavy bass and blinding tempo
of swing music makes me remember.

I still see him here with me,
sitting grey faced and sunken eyed.
Quietly waiting, a prisoner lost in time,
I tried to break the seal,
but all he could do was remember.

Iced up in the sounds of baseball, the weather,
props that could expend time in a given life.
Fall found us clinging to the days of September.
Union tickets to a night at Shea,
in awe I watched the old man come to life.

His eyes bright, He savored each inning,
and roared with the lions.
The smell of fresh roasted peanuts
taking me back with him.

Afterwards we sat here,
the window just a frame.
He remembered younger days aloud,
him and Irene spending hours at Shea field.

Lost in the big apple, a one bedroom spread,
a back alley view of the silver moon.
All the romance two souls could muster.
Lighting the street lamps with the sound of swing,
when the world was alive.

He waited to be with her, living in memories,
hidden behind every street corner.
Lost in all they had left behind,
drowned by the sound of the subway,
when she was the reason for living.

I heard the bell on the door, and watched Him
walk away. Remembering,
his grey face and the salty smile he flashed.
Serenity found him among memories.

His love for Irene lives in this legacy.
Somehow, I find myself lost in things left behind.
Now, my coffee between my hands,
I smile for the memories of an old man.

When the bell on the door rings out,
I turn to look at her, and only see
the best part of my life, in the days ahead.
Sitting in a warm diner on East 21st Street.