On the 1 Train Platform

He was there, older, hispanic looking, with a cheap bag on his back. He just finished his low level blue collar work of the day. He helds two roses in his hands, one red, one yellow.

That is a bit luxury for him, to spend $10 recession dolloar on these flowers.

He looked down on them with extra tenderness, did not notice that I stood behind him, observing. Rearranging the two flowers in his hands, he raised the red a bit higher.

That is the whole world to him, what those two flowers will bring to him.

His wife's smile, she waited for him with the warm dinner at 10:40 PM, that will wash off his whole's day's hard work.

He has a home that he is going back to, with the flowers, somehow, that is enough for a little happiness at the end of the day

When they can sleep with their hands touched.

He is old, hispanic looking, short, he seems happy and content.

There is nothing more important than these flowers at this moment, on the 1 train platform uptown.

The world is still for him, and I am tearful for that moment of tenderness, from a night's of red wine, fun and purposeful kindess from strangers.

Yes, I am back in New York, and all its memories and loss. I am tearful, and drunk and deeply touched by this man with roses, who was there infornt of me, as I walked down the stairs.

I think we live for seeing those moments, or lived them once.

The 1 train, I used to take them up to the Bronx. It is like in the previous life, or the life that is to come.

Someone just ringed the door bell, that is the only time I really miss the door man building instead of sentimental Brown-stone Walk-ups.

I hope no strangers show up on my door, but to be stalked by strangers or to stalk someone you love is totally different things. I stand by that.