Old men will tell you,
that there is no other heaven (worth rushing toward, anyway)
like the one here on earth.
Old men will ask you, without words, how this is not paradise enough--
the way you find your slippers waiting for you at the edge of your bed (the same place you left them yesterday, and the yesterdays before that)
In taking your regular seat on the terrace of your local café, day after day after day (or inside, when it rains.)
Of having your breakfast order ready before you even arrive.
Old men know the miracle of a freshly-squeezed glass of orange juice,
the burnt aroma of coffee as it hangs in the air ... of two eggs.
And of mornings that last for hours, without need of conversation,
or explanation.
