bacon and eggs

he was an old man,
who came to the same
bench everyday where
i walked my dog
in the park,
and sometimes we
would sit and talk.
small talk for the
most part. weather,
sports, small change.
sometimes we'd discuss
the poetry i was
writing. but that week
i wasn't in the mood
for talking, and each
day i would avoid
the bench where the
old man was sitting.
i had just come out
of a relationship
with someone that
i loved, or at least
preceived to be as
love, and i was
dragging, tired,
and bedeviled by
this girl who i
had probably no
business being with.
i had no appetite
for life at the moment,
and the old man yelled
at me from his bench,
hey, what's wrong with
you. mr. poet, you can't
stop and say hello to
an old man anymore?
i thought we were friends.
i smiled and went over
and sat next to him
and told him my story,
which by that point
i was tired from
telling. after awhile
the story becomes
you and you become
the story and that
is what all anyone ever
sees in you anymore.
but i told him just
the same. and he smiled,
he gave my dog a treat
from his pocket, as
he always did and then
he said. i was in love,
once, truly in love.
i am eighty seven and
i can honestly say
that it only happened
once in my life. i
was a very young man
at the time. much
younger than you.
he looked far away,
his eyes were wet with
the memory of this woman.
we were like bacon
and eggs, he said.
i'm not sure who was
which, but we were.
he laughed and nodded.
bacon and eggs. and,
i said, so what happened,
where did she go.
it doesn't matter, he
said. none of that matters.
the only thing that
has meaning is that we
were in love and that
is forever, you can't
change that, you can't
erase that, not even
death will take away
what love is, how rare
and wonderful it is to
have and hold. and then
he looked at me and
smiled. embrace your love
for this woman and let
her go. you will always
have the love, right
here. and he tapped
his chest. right here,
he said again.
bacon and eggs. yes.