Books on a shelf. A twin bed with Navajo blankets. Candles on a window ledge. The radio blasts Monk playing ‘Round Midnight. He sits naked at a card table on a metal folding chair. It is four in the morning.

A cigarette is lit. Cup of coffee is poured. Creamers he stole from the diner are poured into his drink. The edge of the cup is hot. The old man blows and sips a little at a time. A train runs through the Bronx. Zipping into Manhattan. People come and go.

He gets dressed and turns off the radio; locks the rented room’s door and heads down to the street where it is quiet. No drunks. No pushers. No junkies. Just quiet. He marvels at how peaceful the Bronx can be. He feels safe.

The Rainbow Restaurant around the corner is open as always. Twenty-four hours of eggs and sausage, sides of toast. Bowls of chili with a touch of cinnamon. Liver and onions. Glasses of tomato juice.

The old man opens the door and sees familiar faces. Nighthawks congregating as highlights from last night’s Mets game is on the news. He sits in a swivel chair, moves his legs a bit, and picks up The Post. Sinatra died is the headline. A picture shown of old blue eyes holding a mic and holding court. He was 82. His last words were, “I’m losing.”