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The scent of cigar smoke and
whisky permeates the room,
the sound of old black
and white documentaries
of the great second war of
the world escapes into the hall.
There is a worn and beaten
red leather chair which swallows
those not worthy, but when
he sits in it, it’s just right.
The carpet a pattern of yesteryears.
Four walls plastered with “trash”.
A dead man’s overalls on the door,
the badge of a forgotten chief,
tons of helmet fronts abandoned,
cases of badges beaten and tarnished,
obsolete railroad lanterns hang from the ceiling,
a refurbished railroad step box on the floor.
Forgotten, old, dirty pieces
of history, most see junk.
They’ve all played their part.
They’re no longer needed.
They did more then work it, they lived it.
Now retired, he saves them. Gives them a home.
A box alarm system above the desk
rigged to go off when the “big one”
comes in, an old familiar noise.
FA-TANG goes the bell, and
the paper tears another notch in the tape.
His memory is vivid again, that street, that night.
The first room at the top of the stairs
a room, yet a window into a soul.
An old, tarnished, forgotten soul.
He worked, he lived, now retired.
He brings home those like him,
he saves them, and they save him.