Add to those old songs that they would sing
when carousing and laughter were still good:
“Historia de un Amor” and there was “Stardust.”

Are the beats of these melodies the measures
of our lives, when we count them we mark
time when we are still and yet moving?

In other rooms, other voices, other selves,
even a moment can be a lifetime, a lifetime
moves in intensities only old hearts follow.

We are most ourselves when we are not,
or are there when we no longer occupy space,
of what use then are these phantom measures?

Like life measured in teaspoons, is love most
real when counted in so many ways? Songs sung
as memento mori linger as life’s true measure.

Remember how the song goes? “…the melody
haunts my reverie, and I am once again with you.”
Old tunes, old songs, are really only our old selves.

—Albert B. Casuga